05:00: “Gil, wake up! Now!” Captain Gilbert Martin of Army Military Intelligence recognized the voice — Lieutenant Paul Keller, his longtime friend and assistant. Martin, alert and focused despite his all-night trek from Allied headquarters, lifted himself from his cot in the basement of an abandoned church. After eight months near the front, he was accustomed to crises, but he had not expected problems today.

“Paul, what’s wrong?” Martin grabbed his boots from under the bed. He trusted Keller with his life. “What in God’s name is it? The war’s almost over.” The armistice between Germany and the Allies was to take effect on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Six hours away.

“Not yet. The general’s sent the reserves up.” In General Donald Prescott’s part of the line, American troops had assembled in their forward positions. They were about to fight for ground the armistice would grant them for free a few hours later, a senseless waste of blood. “All hell’s about to break loose. We’re preparing to — ”

The deafening barrage of American artillery commenced. The explosions rattled Martin’s eardrums. “What did you say?” Martin hollered.

“Prescott has ordered an attack,” Keller yelled back.

“He’s not that stupid.”

“I was on forward watch. I saw the build-up.”

The artillery fire intensified. Martin cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “I have to stop him.” They rushed to their motorcycle outside the church. Keller, the fastest driver in the division, grabbed the handlebars and started it up. Martin hopped on the back, and Keller skidded away, kicking dirt behind him. They were at Prescott’s division headquarters in five minutes. General Pershing, the Commanding General of the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF), had assigned Martin and Keller to Prescott. Pershing said he trusted their judgment. Prescott called them Pershing’s spies.

Martin and Keller smoothed their uniforms. Prescott was adamant about neatness. Martin marched into the general’s tent with as much authority as he could muster. Keller followed. Prescott’s aides stood aside and let the intelligence officers through. Everyone liked and respected Martin, and they had witnessed Keller’s fearless aggression when provoked. The general, concentrating on his maps, did not look up.

Martin walked right up to the general and saluted. “Excuse me, General. May I have a word?”

Prescott glared at him. “How dare you barge in like this. Leave.”

Martin maintained his best parade-ground posture. “Permission to speak freely, General.” The request sounded like a demand.

“Denied.” Prescott looked back at his maps. He smelled like cigar smoke and expensive Parisian soap.

Keller stepped back and stood at attention with clenched teeth. Martin advanced one step and pointed to Prescott’s maps. “Listen, General.”

“Go to Hell. I don’t care who you report to. I’m going to give those Fritzes a final kick in the balls.”

Martin understood why Prescott’s staff called him Iron Head. “For Christ’s sake. Hasn’t there been enough killing? For what? A field we can walk across like it’s Central Park in a few hours.” Martin knew all too personally the value of human life. “Show some mercy.”

“You’re wrong, Captain. We’ve got these bastards on the ropes. I want to kill as many as I can. I’d march to Berlin if I could.”

“But we’ve won,” Keller said.

“Another word out of you, Lieutenant, and I’ll have you court-martialed.”

“Stop,” Prescott yelled. “That’s an order. Sergeant, remove these officers. Keep them under guard until we finish the attack.” The sergeant and a burly corporal pulled their Colt .45 semi-automatic pistols and pointed them at Martin and Keller.

On their way out of the tent, Prescott’s chief of staff approached them. “Come with me.” As he escorted them away, he whispered to Martin, “Sorry.”

“Glory will be mine at last!” Prescott shouted behind them.

Once outside, Keller paced. Martin lit up a Camel and smoked it in seconds. His next one went just as fast. The chief of staff returned to the tent. The sergeant looked on apologetically. Minutes later, the barrage stopped and Martin heard distant whistles and yells from the front lines. The inevitable machine gun and rifle fire began to chatter.

“Shit.” Keller kicked the ground.

“I failed.” Martin shook with rage.

The wounded began to flow back from the front lines. Sick of the butchery, Martin prayed for these men with deep sorrow. The last American soldiers were dying in the war.

11:01: Shouts of joy erupted from both lines. Martin and Keller followed General Prescott and his senior officers and staff into no-man’s land. Half-way across, Prescott stepped into a mud hole. He ordered a staff officer to wipe off his boots while everyone waited.

This walk was unlike any other Martin had made across a battlefield. Except for the cries of the wounded, it was so quiet he could hear his timepiece tick. No machine guns, no shells bursting, no confused orders. But some things had not changed. A nine-inch rat ran across his feet with something in its mouth. Another chewed on the face of a soldier blown apart at the waist. Martin was not sure if the man was American or German. The smell of cordite, decaying flesh, and onions filled his nose. He wondered if this field would ever yield crops again.

Martin reached for another Camel. Smoking was his one solace. Since he had landed in France, he had smoked two packs a day. When the war had started, the army transferred Martin and Keller’s entire police unit, New York City’s elite Bomb Squad, into military intelligence. That was almost a year ago, an eternity. His lungs were still recovering from exposure to poison gas two summers ago, and his doctors had told him to stop smoking. Die now or die later — what difference would it make? Nothing at home to go back to. He had expected to be buried in France.

Martin surveyed the field. He estimated the attack had cost more than forty American casualties. Stretcher bearers continued to carry the wounded back to the field station. A soldier with a Red Cross band around his arm picked up human remains too small to be identifiable and dumped them into a sack. Martin had seen death up close as a New York policeman, but the killing in this war was beyond his comprehension. Industrial murder. He longed to go away. Someplace quiet. Someplace where he could forget.

They followed General Prescott to the German position. The Germans in their tattered gray uniforms stood weaponless. “Bavarians,” Keller said when he saw their uniform markings. Although defeated, they looked tough and proud. A one-armed German major stepped forward and saluted crisply. He offered Prescott his Luger. The general grabbed it and pushed him aside. “Where is your commanding officer?”

Keller translated. The German major replied. Keller turned to Prescott. “They’re all dead, General. Major von Ohlmann here was ordered here last week to take command of this sector.”

Prescott grumbled and shouted orders. Keller and von Ohlmann talked for a few minutes. Martin understood enough German to know that Keller had softened Prescott’s orders. Keller turned to Prescott. “These men are hungry, General. Can we bring some food over to their lines?”

“Don’t give these bastards a damned thing,” Prescott said.

“General, I apologize for saying this, but Major von Ohlmann is from a long line of Prussian officers,” Keller said. “He’s an honorable man and deserves respect.”

“He’s lucky I don’t shoot him.” Prescott looked around and seemed bored. “I’m done here. You so-called intelligence officers can do what you want. You will anyway, Lieutenant.” Prescott instructed his master sergeant to supervise the collection of German weapons. He told a corporal to remain with Martin and Keller and left with his staff.

After he was gone, von Ohlmann approached Keller. “Am I to understand you are intelligence officers?”

“Yes. We are part of General Pershing’s staff, not his.” Keller nodded his head toward Prescott.

“Gut. Then, may I speak to you and your captain in private?” the major asked, looking suspiciously at the American corporal standing nearby.

“Of course. Where?”

Von Ohlmann pointed to his command bunker behind a series of communications trenches. The three men walked there in silence followed by the corporal. Three times von Ohlmann looked behind him. Martin followed his eyes to a German sergeant with a red arm band and a curious stare who never took his eyes off them.

“Corporal Wasek, please stand guard outside,” Martin ordered. He, Keller, and the German major descended several steps into a 10 x 12 foot bunker. Three layers of stout timbers formed the roof, which was reinforced with layers of sandbags. Keller had to bend down to enter. It smelled of sweat, human waste, and turnips. Two sagging cots, a small table, and a chair were the only furniture. Rats moved unmolested. A dim light completed the bleakness. Von Ohlmann looked nervous but said in good English. “We can speak freely now.” His voice was dry. “You noticed that my men are Bavarian, did you not?” Von Ohlmann swallowed hard and stopped. He looked at the entrance to the bunker.

“Is something wrong?” Keller asked.

“Go on,” Martin said. “We’re alone.”

Obviously distraught, von Ohlmann looked toward the entrance again.

“We’re safe,” Martin said. “That corporal is a good soldier. I know him.”

Von Ohlmann breathed deeply and said in a low voice, “I love Germany, but these Bavarians, they are not German. They are traitors.” He squeezed his fist so hard his knuckles whitened. “You must tell General Pershing this. It is critical.”

“What?” Martin and Keller both said.

“The junior officers. They are planning a coup. They want to break Bavaria away from Germany and make it Communist. That would be a catastrophe. You must stop them!”

Martin heard a faint gasp outside, the sound of a man falling, and footsteps. A shot went off. Von Ohlmann grabbed his chest and slumped to the ground. Martin and Keller reached for their .45s and dived for cover. In the confined bunker, Martin looked up and saw the German sergeant with the red arm band in the entrance. He fired two more bullets from his Luger, but they missed. Martin’s return shot bored into his heart.

Keller examined the assassin, while Martin tended to von Ohlmann. His dying words were, “The German Revolution has begun.”

James Hockenberry, a career financial executive, has redirected his life to suspense writing with his award winning “World War One Intrigue” trilogy. The change has allowed him to interweave three of his long-time passions: history, literature, and his German-American roots. Over Here, the first novel is set in 1915-1916 and dramatizes the little known but extensive German sabotage campaign in New York. The sequel, So Beware, is set in 1919, portrays the events and turmoil of the climatic Paris Peace talks and German revolutions. He is working on his third book, Send the Word (scheduled for publication in 2019), set in 1918 which will focus on the U.S. military experience in the Great War and the U.S. home front. His books are character-driven, page-turning thrillers, grounded in exacting research. Both Over Here and So Beware have won a silver award from the Florida Authors and Publishers Association (FAPA), and So Beware was a finalist in the Book Excellence Awards competition.

Rios didn’t budge, didn’t seem to hear. He’d fallen into a slump, head dangling from a loose neck, much like the five strangers surrounding him on the prisoners’ bench. At four in the morning, mid-graveyard, every player in the courtroom was blinking grit, battling the nod.

Tilted upright behind the prosecutor’s table, Dana Hargrove evaluated the case. Through sheer will and frequent sips from a tall coffee cup, she snubbed the empty chair and remained standing. In a stiff-armed lean, hands grasping the table edge, she scanned the papers laid out on the surface below. The faint print on tissue-thin paper was nearly illegible.

This had to get better. A new computer system was promised for the summer of 1988, a few months from now. Until then, the district attorney’s intake clerks still typed the criminal complaints on multiple-sheet carbon forms, replete with black strikeovers. The police reports usually weren’t any better. This one was handwritten.

Dana’s large, brown eyes were red-rimmed and burning. Squinting hard under the buzz of fluorescent light, she tried to make sense of the swimming text. Never enough information and never enough time to formulate a strategy. Graveyard shift in arraignment court was the worst, an assignment dumped on new hires and a rite of passage for every rookie. With it came the absurd responsibility of making crucial, split-second decisions on zero sleep—plea bargains and bail applications in cases as serious as murder and rape.

But this one? Incredulous, Dana confirmed what she’d seen at first glance. Farebeat. Why was a farebeat in the system at four in the morning?

“Bernardo Rios, step up!” barked the clerk. This time the defendant snapped alert, suddenly aware that the name, spoken with a New York clip, was meant to be his. Bleary eyes searched the room and fell upon the uniformed court officer striding into his face, coaxing him up with a twitching finger. Rios straightened his legs, uncertainly finding his balance. Nothing restrained him. Unlike some of the prisoners, he wasn’t considered dangerous enough to be handcuffed or shackled.

The judge scanned the courtroom, rolled his eyes and growled, “Get the Spanish interpreter.” Hadn’t she been here a minute ago? Inexplicably, she’d disappeared. “Second call!”

Chomsky didn’t appreciate obstacles to his relentless pace, which he maintained even on graveyard. His normal state of irritability grew with lack of sleep, along with his habit of blaming everyone in sight—particularly the defendants—for his inability to avoid a temporary assignment to night court.

“How do you spell that?” asked the droopy stenographer, hands poised over her machine.

“Don’t take that down,” Seth told her, then to Rios: “Esperas…vamos a…well…otra vez.” A light went on in the defendant’s eyes, and he turned toward the prisoners’ bench. The judge, behind his obelisk of gouged, dark wood, swiveled his chair to the side and beckoned the court clerk, who came up to receive an instruction.

“Very good,” Dana whispered to Seth out the side of her mouth, keeping her head bent over the papers. She was practiced in a level of voice just beneath Chomsky’s hearing, loud enough to reach her adversary a few yards away at the defense table while the judge was distracted.

“Not bad for one year of college Spanish,” he replied with a wink.

“Trying to avoid the bologna and cigarettes?”

Seth understood her meaning and grinned, pushing a friendly set of quote marks into his cheeks. Earlier, he’d been allowed a two-minute conference with each of his prospective clients in the close quarters of the lockup, a breeding ground of singular odors on the breath and bodies of arrestees. Anyone held in the pens longer than six hours was entitled to bologna and American cheese on white, followed by a smoke.

“Just bologna on that one,” he whispered, keeping an eye on Chomsky, who was giving a final directive to the clerk.

Seth was likeable, a pleasant distraction from Dana’s nocturnal hallucination. His grin and lively blue eyes always tugged out a response, and his regular features made a welcome contrast to the grim vision of endless unsavory characters in the night. Some Legal Aid attorneys—those blindly overzealous champions of the accused—could make Dana’s graveyard shift completely miserable, but with Seth in the opposing camp, she could count on a comrade against Chomsky’s unpredictable wrath.

The shuffle of hard-soled shoes and scrape of a wooden chair floated in the cavernous space. The judge, now turning to face them, ran a palm over the half-dozen gray hairs on his head and dropped the hand to his desk. His fingers drummed the wood, sending audible vibrations into the unacceptable emptiness. “Let’s go! Call the next one.”

Meanwhile, out the corner of her eye, Dana saw Rios hesitate before resuming his seat, as if he’d just noticed his bench companions for the first time. Street people, three prostitutes and two disheveled, grimy men. Rios was a small cut above them with his clean, discount store clothing and a decent haircut. A sense of neatness. She wondered at this. The transit police usually didn’t arrest people like Rios for jumping the subway turnstile. Instead, they issued a ticket directing the accused to appear in court on a future date to answer a charge of theft of services, a low-level misdemeanor. On the books, the maximum sentence was six months, but standard practice was to impose a fine.

“People against Velvet Desire,” called the clerk.

Two court officers stood ready to escort the red-wigged woman as she slithered upward, giving Rios the extra space he needed on the bench to maintain some distance from the others. “De-zir-ray,” she corrected the clerk, stumbling toward Kaplan on stiletto heels. The officers exchanged amused looks and took up positions behind her at the defense table to prevent the possibility of an escape through the empty audience section and out the door.

Assistant DA Hargrove had no need to examine the thick stack of carbon paper on this one. Ten years of pross convictions marred Velvet Desire’s past. A raid early yesterday morning had sent more than two dozen prostitutes through the system in the last few hours. Chomsky wasn’t fond of hookers and always offered them an impossible choice: five days for a guilty plea or an extortionate bail for a not guilty plea. Either way, the punishment was unprofitable for their pimps, who took it out on them when they returned to the street.

Chomsky’s tough stance was out of line. Most judges would offer time served, anywhere from twelve to thirty-six hours between arrest and arraignment. But Dana didn’t have a hope of changing the judge’s mind. Neither did the defendants. At about 7:30 a.m., any prostitutes left over from the raid would stir up a scene in the courtroom, hoping to delay their arraignment until the day judge came on the bench. For now, there was nothing Ms. “De-zir-ray” could do but take what was coming.

Dana listened with one ear while continuing to eye Rios’s papers, trying to unfurl the mystery of his arrest.

“Waive the reading of the rights and charges?” asked the clerk.

“So waived,” responded Kaplan in between low, fast talk with his client. Velvet wasn’t a stranger to Chomsky and knew the game well. Nevertheless, she shouted for effect: “Five days. Sheee-it!”

“Keep it closed,” rapped the judge. “An extra day for the next outburst. You have fifteen seconds to give me your plea.” He set a timer on his watch. “After that, another day for every fifteen.”

Dana flipped up the Rios complaint and examined his yellow sheet underneath. Here was the answer. The transit cops must have recognized him. Rios had a recent conviction for theft of services and another for petit larceny. He was a small-time thief. He also used different aliases for each arrest. No wonder he hadn’t responded immediately when his case was called. “Rios” might not be his name at all.

“That’s bullshit,” spat the large purple mouth. For all her legal experience, Velvet hadn’t wised up. Seth pumped his hands up and down and whispered hoarsely, hoping to stem the overflow.

“Okay. That’s six days. You don’t like it? Get out of the business.” Chomsky turned to ADA Hargrove. “Hear the People on bail.”

Dana looked up. The judge didn’t want a speech, and in fact, anything more than a few words would aggravate him further.

“The People recommend $250,” she said simply.

“Mr. Kaplan?”

“My client has community ties and isn’t a flight risk…”

The court officers snickered.

“Bail set at $1,500, cash or insurance company bond.” The judge lifted the gavel.

“One moment, Your Honor,” said Kaplan with an ear open to his rasping client. “Ms. Desire wishes to enter a plea of guilty to the charge.”

Stifling a grin, Judge Chomsky flew into the necessary litany to assure the legality of the plea. Dana shut her ears to the proceedings and concentrated on the Rios police report. In the box for “personal property,” the arresting officer had written “$3,300 cash, bank papers.” Dana reached the logical conclusion: poverty was no excuse for the defendant’s larcenous behavior.

With a crack of the gavel, Judge Chomsky imposed sentence.

“Seven days. That ain’t the deal!”

“Go back to school, Ms. Desire. Six plus one. The bail application took fifteen seconds.”

Velvet turned to her lawyer and screamed demands while Seth tried to convince her that the judge wouldn’t allow her to withdraw the guilty plea. The court officers stood at the ready.

“Let’s go,” demanded Chomsky, cracking the gavel again. He stood, and with a look of disgust, swiped the air with his hand to erase the sight. “Take her out. Court stands in recess. Ten minutes. Don’t go anywhere.” He descended from his fortress, shrinking into a surprisingly small, gray and ordinary man as he scurried toward the side door, on his way to chambers.

Court officers removed a kicking Velvet Desire while the defense and prosecution exchanged looks. With Velvet gone, a moment of dead silence fell. Dana looked down at the table, now a morass of disorganized papers. At the beginning of her shift, she’d fanned them out like a magician’s deck of cards, stretching the overlapping papers straight in a line with just the docket numbers and defendants’ names showing. Periodically, a clerk or paralegal from the district attorney’s office would enter the courtroom to deliver new papers and take away those already arraigned, challenging Dana’s neat organization.

Underneath the line, she’d placed an alphabetically organized row of notes from various assistant district attorneys concerning the most serious crimes or high-profile defendants. “Second call this case,” was a frequent message. “I want to appear on it.” The ADA’s office phone number or whereabouts would be noted. “I’m OT in 52,” for example, was code for “on trial” in the courtroom for Part 52 of the Supreme Court.

Of course, it was impossible to predict the exact moment when a particular defendant would be arraigned. There were too many variables. The assigned ADA couldn’t appear if the arraignment occurred on graveyard. So, every note included a backup set of specific instructions, including the amount of bail to request, the details of a plea offer, or a directive to refrain from plea bargaining—instructions intended to avert sure disaster committed by a rookie ADA like Hargrove, dizzy with fatigue and naïve with inexperience.

Eyeing the jumble, Dana smoothed her crown back down to the nape of her neck where a gold barrette neatly gathered her shoulder-length dark hair, shiny and thick as mink. She sat and quickly reorganized the papers, assuring herself in the process that nothing had been missed. Then she rose onto her low heels, the comfortable shoes she reserved for night court. Otherwise, her manner of dress was the same as daytime office wear—a gray, business skirt suit. She never wore a pantsuit, unlike some of the female Legal Aid attorneys she’d seen.

Dana pulled together the lapels of her jacket, buttoned it, and turned to go. There was just enough time to splash cold water on her face, among other things, in the ladies’ room.

“Wait.” Seth stopped her.

“I have to go.”

“Just a sec. What are you looking for in the Rios case?”

“The farebeat? He has to plead to the charge.”

“Yeah, but you’re recommending a fine, right? How much?”

Dana lowered her brow and peered at her adversary like he’d just landed from Mars. “Sure, I’ll recommend a fine. You know me, Seth. I just love to hear myself talk. I mean, where else can I be such an effective advocate?”

Seth grinned. “Don’t be so sure about the judge. Even Chomsky can see that Rios isn’t your common street punk.”

“If the judge is giving prostitutes five days, he’s giving time to a farebeat with a record.” Both attorneys turned, as if on cue, to regard the defendant, now reestablished on the bench in a cross-armed, sideways slump with his eyes closed.

“You know,” said Dana pensively, “if the judge wants to give your guy a few days, it’s all right with me.”

“Are you serious? He’s been locked up since noon. No farebeat should get more than a fine.”

“I don’t know…”

“Besides, not that you care, but he didn’t do it. Says he dropped his token, it was rolling away, and he had to jump the turnstile to get it.”

Dana raised her shapely eyebrows. “He told you all that, back in the pens? Without the interpreter? I’m impressed.”

“He was straight with me.”

“I mean, I’m impressed with your Spanish, not your client.”

“I understand a lot more than I speak.”

“So, he dropped his token. Very original.”

“I believe him.”

Seth’s earnest expression said it all. He didn’t often admit to a belief in his clients, so Dana took him at his word. He had spoken with Rios. She had not. And while intuition counted for a lot in this business, Dana’s intuition had been known to fail her at moments when she really needed it. In her nine months at the DA’s office, many people—witnesses, cops, defendants—had lied to her, and had lied well. Now she was more inclined to stick to the record and form her beliefs about an individual based on his past habits instead of the words out of his mouth.

“He has a record,” she declared. “He’s a thief and a liar. Why do you think he was arrested? The cops recognized him. Listen, I’ve got to go…” She picked up her purse and stepped away from the table.

“If the judge wants more than time served we’re taking it to trial.”

Dana halted and swung around to face him. A snappy retort would have been perfect just then, and her tongue might have found one if it weren’t for Judge Chomsky, who banged open the side door and strode up to the bench. “All rise,” intoned the clerk.

“Damn it, Seth,” she hissed under her breath. “Now I have to hold it in.”

“That weren’t no ten minutes,” he quipped with a shrug of apology and a parenthetical grin, almost making up for her lost break.

As the judge took his seat, a small, middle-aged woman entered the courtroom, scurried through the rows of empty pews and pushed through the swinging gate into the section reserved for the participants. Out of breath, she panted in a Spanish accent and glanced up at the judge but said nothing to explain her disappearance twenty minutes ago.

Judge Chomsky pointed to the court clerk. “Call that case with the interpreter.”

This time Rios jumped to his feet when the name was called. Before he could reach the defense table, Kaplan spoke. “May we approach, Your Honor?” He was angling for a private, off-the-record conference at the bench to learn the judge’s position on sentencing.

“Hold it,” snapped Chomsky, thrusting out a hand. “There’s nothing to talk about. Ten days, take it or leave it.”

Dana’s jaw dropped. Tough, even for Chomsky.

“Your Honor—” Seth began, in protest.

“The man got nothing for the other two raps. It’s time to do some time Mr. Rios, or whatever your name is. Clean up your act!” The color rose in the judge’s pallid cheeks as he geared up for a lecture. He always delivered one or two during his eight-hour shift, although Dana never knew when they were coming or which defendants would inspire them. Oddly, Chomsky more often unleashed his fury against the small-time thieves and street dealers than the kidnappers, rapists and murderers, for whom he clothed his tongue in solemnity. The serious criminals were beyond his help and therefore unworthy of his pearls of wisdom.

The Spanish interpreter rattled every word into Rios’s open ear. He stood mute behind black, emotionless eyes, protected by an invisible, impermeable wall against the judge’s harsh attention. His figure was so still, the air around him seemed to vibrate. Who was Bernardo Rios? Decidedly not a New Yorker. His past had trained his response, or lack of it, as he listened intently to the translation of Chomsky’s ranting with an unreadable expression. Behind that mask lay any number of possibilities within: acceptance, worry, fear, indifference, or seething rage.

“You’re a liar and a cheat, Rios. Two thefts this year. How many others did you get away with? Do a few days at Rikers and see how you feel then! Money in your pocket and still won’t buy a token. In this great city people who barely make it are still paying the fare. Nobody gets a free ride, Rios. Who needs you? Go back to Panama.” The judge held up and slapped the case papers with the back of his hand. “Or is it Peru or Colombia?” Dana looked at the defendant’s yellow sheet again, and sure enough, Rios had given the police a different native country each time he was arrested. “You’re a liar and a cheat. I don’t want you in my courtroom again. Do your time and learn a lesson and go home. We don’t put up with this kind of crap here!”

The judge paused for breath. The balls of his cheeks and rims of his ears were purple and a thin layer of white foam lined the inside corners of his mouth. “All right. Fifteen seconds. Give me your plea.”

Kaplan knew better than to comment on the judge’s lecture for fear of spurring a new tirade, aimed at him, not the client. He conferred briefly with Rios in hushed tones through the interpreter. Dana caught only a few words but grasped the understated outrage in Seth’s voice. A plea of not guilty could mean an impossibly high bail, enough to lock the door on Rios for the full ten days while awaiting trial. Still, Seth might be able to pressure Dana’s office into advancing the case. Almost any other judge would be more lenient. Rios could have his trial in the next day or two and win immediate release, even if convicted.

The trick was to finagle a short adjournment in a system jammed with cases. Dana decided she wouldn’t create an obstacle. After all, the outcome seemed fair. She would have recommended a sentence of a couple of days for this defendant—if Chomsky had asked for her opinion.

Rios looked at Kaplan while listening quietly to the interpreter. A smoldering passivity was palpable, a reluctant acquiescence to fate. Within the allotted fifteen seconds, Seth gave his response: “Your Honor, Mr. Rios wishes to enter a plea of not guilty and requests an immediate trial.”

Chomsky raised his eyebrows in boredom, his rage sated by his own recent outburst. He turned a blasé eye on ADA Hargrove. “People?”

The judge didn’t want to hear it, but Dana needed to make a record if the People were requesting bail in a farebeat case. A man with a larceny record who regularly lied to the police and now faced jail time was unlikely to return for trial, argued Dana—unless the court set a significant bail. Figures whirled on a roulette wheel in her head, the blurred numbers reflecting a world of differing opinions about the value of her words. The ball landed uncertainly in a slot. “The People recommend a bail of $1,000.”

Chomsky raised his eyebrows again, whether in disdain or surprise, Dana couldn’t be sure. He turned to her adversary. “Counselor?”

“That’s an outrageous amount!” spurted Kaplan, clenching his fists in midair. Dana took no personal offense at his keenly felt sense of injustice. While some defense attorneys put on a show for every defendant, Seth was choosy and therefore genuine. “Mr. Rios was falsely accused. He bought a token, it slipped out of his hand and rolled under the turnstile…”

“All right, all right,” Chomsky muttered, turning his head to the side and drumming his fingers.

“My client should be released on his own recognizance. He wants to return to court and testify…”

“Wants to tell his story, does he? A fine story indeed, but I don’t buy it. Bail is set at $1,500.”

“That’s unconscionable! It’s…”

“Watch it, counselor.”

“Your Honor, he can’t pay it. He’ll stay locked up before he’s found guilty of anything. At the very least, the court should order the DA to release my client’s funds. A sum of money was seized from him at his arrest.”

The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Your office will be forfeiting that cash, right Miss Hargrove?”

Dana was taken off guard. Forfeiture? She knew little about the law but assumed nothing could be forfeited unless related somehow to the defendant’s crime. Nothing in her papers suggested the $3,300 was related to any crime, much less farebeat. “Well, Your Honor, certainly I’ll discuss it with the attorneys in forfeiture. I’d request that the cash be held until then.”

“Listen to me, Miss ADA.” The judge turned a squinting eye on her. “You take this back to your forfeiture unit! The man here has $3,300 and won’t pay his fare. Deliberately won’t pay, even though he has enough for a ten-year supply of tokens. It proves his intent. It’s a forfeitable instrumentality of crime. Take that back to your office and thank me for doing your work.”

Dana had barely registered this far-fetched theory when the judge said, “Enough of this. Bail is set at $1,500.” He turned to the clerk. “Call the next case.”

“Judge,” interjected Kaplan. “We need a trial date. Later today or tomorrow at the latest…”

“May 18. Let’s go.”

“That’s a month from now.”

“Listen, Mr. Kaplan, I know your game, and don’t think I don’t. ‘Give me a trial, give me a trial.’ Come clean and tell us what you really want! Your guy here wants to wait until tomorrow to plead guilty, after you find a judge who gives fines, not jail sentences. I have news for you, Mr. Kaplan. I won’t be a party to your shopping expedition. If you really want a trial, you want motion practice—”

“Mr. Rios waives motions—”

“—if you’re serious about a trial that is. This case is adjourned for defendant’s motion papers, May 18th. You want it on earlier? Talk to the DA and see if you can get it advanced. May 18. Next case. Let’s go!”

V.S. Kemanis has had an exciting and varied career in the law and the arts. As an attorney, she has been a criminal prosecutor for county and state agencies, argued criminal appeals for the prosecution and defense, conducted complex civil litigation, and worked for appellate judges and courts, most recently as a supervising editor of appellate decisions. Ms. Kemanis is also an accomplished dancer of classical ballet, modern jazz, and contemporary styles, and has performed, taught and choreographed in California, Colorado and New York. Short fiction by Ms. Kemanis has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, The Crooked Road Volume 3, among others. She has published four collections of short fiction and four legal thrillers featuring prosecutor Dana Hargrove who, like the author, juggles the competing demands of family with a high-powered professional career in the law.

The ashes of the cigarette struck the rocks with sparks and bloodred cinders. The wind beneath the bridge played with the wisps of smoke coming from the tip, making spidery webs in the air. The rising sun splashed a honey-colored glow on the buildings. From the shore, a trumpet, of all things, blew loud and clear like a call. The hooded head turned up abruptly, alert like a hunter on the prowl. Ready. At ease, knowing that it would come full circle. Destiny was working its odd magic. Like he said it would.

Something bright appeared at the edge of the bridge—halting, tipping, and then falling. The eyes beneath the dark hood followed it carefully, one corner of the mouth curving slightly into a gratified grin. The shining bit of destiny hit the shore just out of reach of the water on a small hill of gravel. The figure gracefully slunk across the shore, an arm slowly reaching out like a white snake about to grasp its prey. The coveted reward. The one he’d said was worth waiting for. The hand gripped the handle and tenderly pocketed the prize.

The cigarette was thrown to the ground, discarded. A lingering whistle echoed softly in the breeze as the hooded figure drifted up the shore into Manhattan.

CHAPTER 1

My father was skating up ahead, faster, faster; my mother and I were laughing, joyously racing to catch up. Colors and sensations swirled like a dancer teasing the audience: the cold, gray day, the gentle snowflakes kissed my cheeks and coated my eyelashes, my mother’s blue scarf, my father’s scratchy red mittens. He was skating along the outside edges of the rink. We almost had him! A loud crack suddenly ripped through the air. A heart pang of panic, and my father’s fearful, wide eyes flashed back to us, arms reaching out. Then frigid, terrifying darkness. The intense cold made my bones and muscles ache to the point of cracking; then a slow, heavy, downward pull to blackness….

Three familiar images drifted into focus: the ugly grin of the lady in the green hat; the dark brown eyes intently staring, willing me to wake; and finally, the silver gun with the bloodred scroll on the handle.

I opened my eyes. A cool spring breeze ruffled the white drapes with the city’s fresh, energetic air. The familiar dark brown dresser with glass drawer knobs poking out and a charming porcelain pitcher and bowl on top looked steadfast and comfortable after the eerie dream. The cotton sheets in my smoky blue and white bed felt soft and reassuring as I rubbed them between my fingers. I stretched like a cat, and the only lingering remnant of the dream was those eyes. Those dark brown eyes.

I’m a big believer in dreams—well, at least some of them. A past I was still piecing together.

The piece I’d already figured out was the dark brown eyes. If this were a novel, those intense eyes might bring a sense of fear or unease. Perhaps they’d be a harbinger of my death and open up a vast mystery.

Surprisingly, those eyes were the only part of my dreams that absolutely brought me comfort. Were they the eyes of a long-lost love? No. Were they the sinister yet seductive eyes of a criminal? No. Tall, dark, and handsome stranger? Try squat, rather tubby Italian who never stopped moving and was, most of the time, bellowing. Which was actually occurring downstairs right this second.

I jumped out of bed, threw on my favorite black skirt and white blouse with the long, full sleeves, raced a washcloth around my face, brushed my dark brown hair, tossed on some mascara and bright red lipstick, slipped on my high-heeled red Mary Janes, and ran down the stairs to greet that bellower. Who just happened to my boss and a friend of the family.

He was also the ninety-ninth mayor of New York City: Fiorello LaGuardia.

“Grrrrr,” I replied. I only went by Lane. Lane Sanders. And I happened to take a perverse pleasure in never telling him, nor anyone, for that matter, whether Lane was my full name or a nickname. Plus, his voice was loud enough to be a giant’s but also very screechy, especially before breakfast.

“Good morning, Aunt Evelyn,” I said as I strode right past him, across the dining room, and gave my aunt a quick kiss on her soft cheek.

Her jet black hair was neatly pinned up, and she was sporting a crisp, navy blue pinstriped dress. I smiled to myself at the stark contrast of her attire this morning compared to her red skirt and her long hair trailing down her back while she was painting in her studio last night. Her childhood in France and Italy gave her a worldly and almost exotic air mixed with an earthy authenticity that loved to dare convention.

She smiled up at me from the breakfast table laden with scrumptious-smelling scones, eggs, and sausages. Her eyes crinkled with amusement at the exchange between Fiorello and me.

“I don’t have dark circles under my eyes, do I?” I asked as I contemplated running back upstairs for some face powder.

“Oh, no, not at all, Lane, not this morning. I can just tell,” she replied. I had no doubt about that. Aunt Evelyn’s intuition and attention to detail were uncanny at times.

I turned to the buzzing and humming human being I had swept past. Fiorello was in a consistent state of perpetual motion, but especially if he had not been greeted properly. Having had him suffer sufficiently, I rounded on him with a huge grin and cocked eyebrow. “And you, my cantankerous friend. How are you this morning?”

I heard his chuckle as I dove to the table, eating what I could as fast as human digestion and general dignity could handle, for I knew he would give me mere seconds to eat before we had to bolt out the door.

“All right,” he began, with eyes still smiling but with an air of getting down to business. “We have a lot to do today. I was just telling Evelyn that I have a meeting with my commissioners this morning.” He said this with a great roll of his eyes. Most of the time, his commissioners were the bane of his existence.

He continued, “…a meeting with Roger down at the docks to discuss the conditions at the dock houses and…” He went on and on about the day’s activities as I slurped down a cup of tea and loaded up a scone with homemade strawberry curd and butter.

Mr. Kirkland came in and scooped some scrambled eggs onto my plate. Even though I had lived with them for over thirteen years, John Kirkland was still a bit of a mystery to me. I would have thought that Aunt Evelyn would require a butler and cook who would be refined and stern in a European fashion. He was anything but that; Mr. Kirkland’s craggy face was weather-worn but appealing. I liked how his light gray hair was somewhat unfashionably long, touching his collar; how his eyes were tough, blue, and intelligent. He looked more suited to being captain of a sea vessel, barking orders to swarthy sea mates while battling hurricanes and pirates.

He had been with Aunt Evelyn since before I came to live with her when I was ten. He kept to himself and never really talked with me at great length, other than his usual muttering with the colorful language that also reminded one of seafaring life. And much to Aunt Evelyn’s chagrin, I couldn’t help but pick up a few of his more colorful words here and there.

As I ate my breakfast, last night’s dream kept tapping my shoulder like an insistent child trying to get my attention. So I began walking down the lane of the old memories it triggered.

It was the music I remembered most. The early Twenties was ripe with new sounds and new life. Our Victrola played them all: Paul Whiteman, Trixie Smith, Al Jolson. Songs like “” and “Three O’Clock in the Morning.” They were always the backdrop to every memory, every feeling. My parents owned a bookstore on Main Street in Rochester, Michigan, and our brown Tudor-style house had a lovely garden in the back.

My attention snapped back to the present as I heard Fiorello say, as he did every day, “We’ve got work to do!” He started to bolt out the door, which meant I’d better follow or be left behind.

“Bye, Aunt Evelyn! Bye, Mr. Kirkland!” I yelled as I grabbed my large purse with my two notebooks tucked inside.

One I always carried with me to take notes. The other was my prized possession: a deep red leather notebook with engraved curls and leaves around the edges. It was filled with notes and mementos from my parents and it never left my side. With my bag securely over my shoulder, I ran out the door after Fiorello.

His legs moved rapidly down 80th Street toward Lexington, where we’d pick up the subway at 77th. In my high heels, I was actually much taller than Fio, but his commanding presence more than made up for his height. I never felt taller than him. I had to fairly run (not an easy task, but damn, I loved those red shoes) to keep up with his pace. As he walked, he started to rapid-fire tasks for me to do for the day. I brought out my notepad and took down copious details.

We took a variety of routes to work every day, depending on Fio’s mood and whom he wanted to see on his way in. Sometimes we took one of the elevated trains down Second or Third Avenue, sometimes the subway down Lexington, or, once in a while, his car and driver would pick us up. When we came to Lexington and started south, we went past Butterfield Market with its heavenly aroma of baking bread wafting out. The many languages of the city rolled around us, making the energy and bustle of the thousands of people heading to work and school that day a physical force so palpable you could almost touch it. Packs of children were being walked to school while packs of dogs were being given their morning exercise. There was Murrey’s Jewelry store, which had just opened, with sparkling rings and bracelets in the window; the shoe store with its tantalizing new spring line; the dusty newspaper stands… I loved this city. It was challenging, stimulating, vibrant. A place of many layers and depth.

I was writing as fast as I could, fortunately using the shorthand I learned in high school. It looked like Sanskrit, but it was infinitely faster than longhand, especially when trying to keep up with the Little Flower—that’s what Fiorello means in Italian. He was only called that by people who loved him, but I never really could tell how he felt about that. His small stature seemed to haunt him. He acted like he was at least six-foot-four, but in actuality he was always looking up at people. He had a bust of Napoleon in his office.

Mr. LaGuardia was loud, abrasive, rude, purposeful, fast, incredibly intelligent, sometimes scary; did I mention loud? And yet he was also kind, generous, intuitive, and something I could never put my finger on…. Wary? Insecure? I don’t know. He was an enigma at the same time that his feelings were written all over his face.

I loved my job. I interviewed for the job right when Mr. LaGuardia took office two years ago, and after an hour of back-and-forth discussion (rather like a speed game of ping-pong), I was hired. I started in the secretary pool for over a year. Then, at the youthful age of twenty-three, I was recently promoted to Mayor Fiorello La Guardia’s personal aide.

We stopped, finally, at the end of the platform. I pointed and flexed my foot, working out the usual high-heel cramps. I felt someone brush up against me from behind; it was a mother with two young boys pulling on her arms, both prattling on to her at the same time. She looked tired, but she was smiling.

My eyes flicked behind her, and my stomach lurched with a sickening drop. Standing there was one of the scariest men I’d ever seen in my life, which is saying a lot, since I worked in the mayor’s office. He was a grungy white man with a grungier brown hat smashed on top of his head, a stained white shirt, a grotesque stomach jutting out over wherever his belt would have been, and a slimy black cigar poking out of his mouth. All that was enough, but it was his face that sent a ripple of fear into me. His eyes were mean and flat but hinted that something was lurking back there. His nose encased a dense collection of black, bristly nose hairs poking out. He locked eyes with me for one second. I blinked and looked down as he gurgled a satisfied grunt at my unease. Just then, the train roared into the station.

Fio glared at me. “Lane? You with me? You okay?”

I looked at him and said, “Do you see that guy watching us?” I turned, but he was gone.

“What guy? Watching us?” he asked.

“He’s gone.” Before I could say more, the train stopped, the doors swung open, and a mass of humanity crushed its way onto the train. The train lurched downtown with all of us packed into place with someone’s elbow in my back and a corner of a briefcase poking my thigh. I couldn’t get that guy out of my mind.

In an effort to think of something else, I tried humming the new song by Bing Crosby, but all I could remember was the part that had the title of the song in it: “Benny’s from heaven….” We finally pulled into our station, Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall. We smashed our way back out of the train and up several flights of stairs, and burst out into the refreshing open air at city hall. I straightened my red pillbox hat, which had gotten jostled a bit, and began copying down the onslaught of instructions once more.

Fio went right to his office after greeting everyone by name. I got to my desk and immediately started organizing my schedule. There was already a lineup of petitioners to see the mayor. From the young man whose wife had gone into labor unexpectedly early and the closest hospital was an expensive one that they couldn’t afford—Fio was sure to get the fees reduced—to the pushcart peddler who had come in to complain that he couldn’t get his license renewed. Fio always listened to each and every person and did something about their problem.

I helped Fio get through the line of people, listening, directing, and taking down information. Stifling a yawn, I felt the need for coffee and walked over to the coffee room. Fiorello didn’t believe in coffee breaks, so I had to make it quick.

“Hey, Lane! How ya doin’?” exclaimed Ralph, one of the other aides in the office. Ralph’s curly dark hair fell over his brow, and his smile was wide as he talked at breakneck speed. He was a nice guy; however, he never let me finish a sentence.

Ralph always knew what was hot to do in town. I could never fathom how much he crammed into a weekend. “Hey, Ralph, what’s up t—” I asked. Before I could finish my greeting, he started in at a pace worthy of a Gilmore Special.

“There’s a bunch of us going out to Club Monaco tonight, want to come along? I hear there’s a great band, play all the new songs, too, not just the oldies. Hey! Great shoes, Lane. You should wear that red dress you wore last time we went to Wit’s End. You looked amazing. Do you think you could bring Annie?”

He looked at me expectantly. Ralph had a hopeless crush on Annie, a secretary downstairs. But then again, he had a hopeless crush on a dozen women a month. He was lucky he was so good-natured.

“Sure, I’ll see if she wants to c—” I tried to reply.

“Great! Save me a dance, Lane! Gotta run, Mr. Fitzgerald’s extra grouchy today, better get back before he realizes I’ve been ‘Gone too long, Popeye!’” He mimicked his surly boss perfectly and flew out the door, managing to throw his empty coffee cup into the garbage can with a very nice backhand. He really did resemble Popeye from the radio show and on the Wheatena box.

I walked back to my office with my creamy, sugary coffee and looked forward to going to the new Club Monaco. I got to work typing up notes for some points of contention Mr. LaGuardia had on the conditions of the housing organizations, adding up some numbers of the budget for this month, and transcribing my notes from the morning train ride.

The first meeting of the morning was a big one. It was a Boner Award day. Today’s winner of the monthly award—a sheep bone decorated with ribbons like a Christmas present—was Fire Commissioner McElligott. He burned himself with a firecracker while giving a presentation about the dangers of Fourth of July fireworks.

The day went along its merry way until after lunch, when stern voices (aka yelling) floated out from Fio’s office. I had learned to diagnose how important the yelling was. There were three categories. Category one: normal yelling that occurred on a daily basis, when Fio was only nominally annoyed at something, like at the Boner Award earlier. Category two: louder yelling accompanied by some desk-thumping and perhaps a pen whipped at the door out of frustration. This often led to a swift departure by the one being yelled at, brisk action taken by the mayor (more rapid-fire notes on my part), and a lot of activity all day long as we metaphorically put out fires to undo the damage that caused the yelling.

And then there was category three. Ooh, category three. There was usually one big outburst that contained an ominous tone, only one single, loud thump of an agitated fist hitting his desk, and then an eerie quiet that was like the calm before the storm. I usually walked away from my desk at that point, went to the ladies’ room, and basically hid for a few minutes to prepare for battle.

This event turned out to be a category one. I wrote out a quick note on a minuscule piece of paper that said C1 and went out to the main office toward Val’s desk to give her the alert.

The entire office full of secretaries and aides was abundantly aware of the categories of our Little Flower. Valerie was my closest friend, and we navigated the office politics together. There had been a bit of a territory war ever since Fio decided to have me, a woman, be an aide versus a secretary. As I walked out to Valerie, I was already receiving dirty looks from my least favorite people: Lizzie and Roxy.

Val looked over at me with her green eyes flashing. With her light brown hair and thousands of tiny freckles, she looked fantastic as she sported a sage green suit with large buttons and three-quarter-length sleeves.

Lizzie and Roxy were eyeing me with constipated snarls on their faces. I waved in their direction and smiled, tossing the note to Val. She made some cryptic hand signals, like a catcher to the pitcher, to George across the room, and he ran off to another part of the office to inform them that the yelling was a mere category one.

“Hey, Short ‘n’ Shorter are particularly snarly today. What’s going on?” I asked Val as I leaned up against her desk. Lizzie and Roxy were very tiny and they had an adorable aura around them that made me feel like a Clydesdale. I looked over at them, noticing how Roxy’s curly white-blond hair hugged her perfectly round face in the latest style. She was very attractive except for the fact that she looked like she was perpetually displeased, or smelled something rotten. Today she had on a gorgeous yellow scarf and matching yellow, curve-hugging sweater that perfectly highlighted her best assets.

“Oh, they just figured out that since you were made an aide, you actually outrank them in the office.”

“Just now? But I got that promotion six months ago,” I said, with a quizzical, cocked eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, they might type like lightning, but the rest of them isn’t so quick,” said Val.

I looked over at them as Lizzie whispered something to Roxy like a gossipy schoolgirl. Lizzie’s long red hair more than made up for her sort of mousy looks. She had a terrible squint, like she might need glasses, and her shoulders were the tiniest bit hunched (which made me constantly want to scold, Stand up straight!), but with her luxurious hair and wonderful figure, I’m pretty sure no one else noticed. Lizzie and Roxy were devious backstabbers. But they did type like lightning.

Since word traveled fast around there and I wanted to get back to my desk in case the C1 turned into something else, I said bye to Val and started to walk back. Just as I was getting to my desk, a lean, muscular man came barging out of Fio’s office, and we charged right into each other. He was obviously surprised and said with a soft and rather intoxicating British accent, “Sorry, love.” Before I could blink, he gently took my shoulders, set me aside, and in about three strides, was out the door of the office. The man was quick and efficient, yet I had time to glimpse dark eyes that sparked. And since I had literally run my face right into his collarbone, I also knew he smelled wonderful.

Just then Fio came out of his office with a crease furrowed between his brows, tapping his lips with his forefinger in thoughtful consideration.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Hmm?”

“That man that you were yelling—I mean speaking—with just ran into me, and I didn’t get a chance to meet him,” I said, eyes squinting in assessment.

He hesitated, tapped his lips one final time, and replied, “Hmm.” Then Fio turned right around and went back into his office, closing the door behind him.

L.A. Chandlar is the author of the Art Deco Mystery Series with Kensington Publishing featuring Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia and a fresh take on the innovation and liveliness of 1930s New York City. Her debut novel, The Silver Gun released August 29, 2017 and the sequel, The Gold Pawn, will release September 2018. Laurie has been living and writing in New York City for 16 years and has been speaking for a wide variety of audiences for over 20 years including a women’s group with the United Nations. Her talks range from NYC history, the psychology of creativity, and the history of holiday traditions. Laurie has also worked in PR for General Motors, writes and fund-raises for a global nonprofit, is the mother of two boys, and has toured the nation managing a rock band.

Seated at the counsel table in the Associate Circuit Court of McCown County, Missouri, Elsie Arnold watched the judge toy with the file folder before him on the bench.

Judge Calvin ran a hand through his prematurely silver hair. “I’m binding him over, ladies. But it’s a close call.”

Elsie heard her co-counsel, Assistant Prosecutor Breeon Johnson, exhale with relief. Elsie wanted to echo it. The judge was right; the preliminary hearing on the felony assault was not an open and shut case. Their victim was a homeless man who had been inebriated at the time of the attack; and though his injuries were grievous, his testimony was spotty. Seemed like he’d forgotten more than he could recall.

After the judge left the bench, Elsie twisted in her seat to check the clock at the back of the courtroom. “That ran long.”

Breeon nodded. “We’re working overtime, girl.”

Elsie snorted. For a county prosecutor, the idea of overtime was a fiction. As salaried public servants, they routinely worked long hours with no additional compensation.

The women exited the courtroom and walked the worn marble stairway down to the second floor of the century-old county building. Their footsteps echoed in the empty rotunda. The McCown County Courthouse, an imposing stone structure, had graced the center of the town square of Barton, Missouri, for over a century. While other county seats in southwest Missouri had opted to build new structures, to accommodate twenty-first century demands of security and technology, McCown County voters stubbornly clung to the old facility.

“Five thirty, and it’s a ghost town,” Elsie said.

“Not quite. My baby is waiting for me in my office.”

At the bottom of the stairway, they exchanged a look. Elsie didn’t need to speak the obvious: Breeon’s daughter would be highly impatient with the delay.

But who could blame her? Taylor was a fourteen-year-old kid. Hanging around the empty courthouse was a snooze. Breeon, a single mother who hailed from St. Louis, Missouri, tried to keep regular hours. While Bree was a dedicated prosecutor, her devotion to duty was bested by her devotion to her teenage daughter.

Elsie, on the other hand, was a local product: a Barton, Missouri, native. Still single, at the age of thirty-two. And still enjoying her extended adolescence.

As they entered the McCown County Prosecutor’s Office, Breeon made a beeline for her office. “Tay-Tay! I’m done, hon.”

Elsie poked her head into the open doorway of Breeon’s office. Taylor sat behind Breeon’s desk. Her hand was on the computer mouse.

With a sulky face, she said, “Finally. I’ve been bored af.”

“Uh-uh.” Bree’s voice was sharp. “I don’t like that af talk. Don’t use it when you’re around me, do you hear?”

Elsie’s eyes darted to the wall. The af abbreviation was a common sight in her texts. And her tweets. So much speedier than actually spelling out the words.

“Baby, have you been on my computer?”

“Yeah. Just for something to do.”

“Taylor, it’s the county’s computer. We’re not supposed to be on it for personal use.”

Taylor spun in her mother’s office chair and stretched her coltish legs across the tiled floor. “I was just doing some homework. Looking stuff up.”

“Well, remember to stay off it from now on. We don’t want Madeleine mad at us.”

Madeleine Thompson, who held the title of Prosecuting Attorney of McCown County had been known to get her nose out of joint for smaller offenses, Elsie thought.

To lighten the mood, Elsie said, “Taylor, your mom says your birthday is coming up. Just around the corner. I can hardly believe you’re almost fifteen years old.”

Taylor’s eyes lit up. “Mom, I know what I want for my birthday.”

Breeon was digging in her briefcase, sorting through files. “You already told me. Those rain boots in purple.” Bree glanced at Elsie. “Do you know what Hunter rain boots cost? It’s a crime.”

Elsie shrugged. When she was a teenager, rain boots weren’t even a thing—not in Barton, Missouri. On rainy days, she’d walked around town with wet shoes on her feet.

Taylor spoke again, with a challenge in her tone. “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I want headshots.”

Breeon zipped her bag. “What?” she asked, incredulous.

“Headshots. By a photographer. A real one.”

Curious, Elsie stepped through the office doorway and dropped into a chair facing Bree’s desk. “What do you want pictures for? You don’t need your senior portrait till after your junior year in high school.”

“Is this for the yearbook?” Breeon asked.

Taylor’s eyes dropped.

“Not the yearbook. For modeling.”

Elsie and Bree both burst into laughter; but when a cloud crossed Taylor’s face, Elsie tried to choke it back.

Taylor’s face was stormy. “You think I’m too ugly to be a model?”

Breeon stepped over her daughter’s outstretched feet and ran a gentle hand over the girl’s hair. “Oh honey. You’re beautiful. And smart, and talented, and strong.”

“So why can’t I do modeling?”

“Baby, we’re in the Ozark hills of Missouri. Even if I wanted you to be a model—you can’t be one here. There’s no modeling industry around here.”

A glance out of the window behind Breeon’s desk provided the truth to her claim. Tree-covered hills rose up in the distance, behind the town square where the courthouse sat. Barton, Missouri, the county seat of Barton County, Missouri, was a tiny town in the hill country of the Ozarks.

A bare whisper escaped Taylor’s downturned head. “Maybe there is.”

Elsie said, “Why would you want to be a model? They don’t get to eat.”

Taylor rolled her eyes.

Undeterred, Elsie continued: “They have to starve. And their career is over before they hit thirty. And they don’t get to use their brains; they are human clothes hangers.”

Without acknowledging Elsie, Taylor bent to pick up her backpack. “I wanna go home, Mom. We have a game tonight. Coach doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

“Sure thing.” Breeon shot Elsie a pleading look over Taylor’s head. “Can you lock up, Elsie? Taylor needs to be at the gym by six thirty to warm up, and I have to fix something for her to eat.”

Taylor spoke up, with a look of anticipation. “Are we going to the grocery store? I want to get the new Cosmo.”

“No, we’re not. But I got you something better.” Bree rummaged on her desk, pulling up a manila envelope. “It came in the office mail. I wanted to surprise you.”

Taylor tore open the package. A paperback book fell out onto the desktop. She picked it up with a listless hand. “What’s this?”

“Alice Walker. My favorite of her novels. You’re such an advanced reader, I think you’re ready for it.” She kissed Taylor on the forehead, then turned to Elsie. “So you’ll lock up?”

“No problem. Hey—I’ll probably see you all over at the school gym tonight.”

“Well, I’ll be there for the ninth-grade boys’ game. I’m meeting Ashlock, since his kid’s on the team.” With an effort, Elsie kept her voice upbeat. She would much prefer to meet Detective Bob Ashlock, her current flame, in a darkened barroom after work. “But I’ll try to get there early, so I can see your team, too.”

Breeon said, “That’d be great. Right, Taylor?”

Elsie stepped over to Breeon’s desk to pick up the felony hard file they’d handled in Judge Calvin’s court while Breeon packed up her briefcase. Taylor bolted out of the office, with her mother following. Breeon’s voice called out as their steps retreated down the hallway. “See you later, Elsie.”

Elsie flipped through the file and set it down. Giving the desk a final glance, she saw that Bree’s computer was still turned on.

Their boss, Madeleine, had recently sent an office wide email, instructing the employees to log off and shut down the computers at night. It was her new “green” policy.

Elsie leaned over the desk and clicked the mouse, preparing to log off Bree’s computer. Images popped up on the screen. Elsie leaned in to examine it.

It looked like a link for a modeling agency, pitching glamorous jobs for girls from twelve to twenty-five. Elsie shook her head. “Taylor, Taylor,” she murmured.

Idly, she skimmed through the text on the screen. It promised that the agency could make a young woman’s dream of fame and fortune come true, through an international modeling career. Elsie clicked the mouse to expose the bottom of the page, pausing to study a selfie of the agent in charge. It depicted a dark-haired man with a tattoo on his neck. He wore a smarmy grin.

A chill went through her; she grimaced. It set off a buzz in Elsie’s radar. The man in the picture was not the type of individual that a mother would want sniffing around her teenage daughter.

She turned off the computer and got ready to depart. Before she turned off Breeon’s office light, she glanced down at the trashcan near the door.

At the top of the garbage was the brand new Alice Walker paperback novel. Elsie reached into the wastebasket to rescue it; but it had fallen on the remains of Breeon’s lunch. Mustard and ketchup smeared the cover. Elsie dropped it back into the can and headed for the women’s room to wash a streak of ketchup dripping from her fingers.

Nancy Allen practiced law for 15 years as Assistant Missouri Attorney General and Assistant Prosecutor in her native Ozarks. She tried over 30 jury trials, including murder and sexual offenses, and is now a law instructor at Missouri State University.

The words jarred Henry Bristol from his sleep. He looked up at the weathered face of the pilot. “What?”

“I said we got trouble.” Chewing on a cigar, the pilot leaned over the makeshift seat in the back of the cargo bay where Bristol sat. “See that engine out there?”

Bristol glared out the window of the old DC-4. A black patch of oil streaked across the wing like a bloody wound.

“Pressure’s dropping like a brick and we got a blizzard down there. Got to turn around.”

“No!” Bristol’s eyes widened. He was suddenly wide awake. “I already paid you. You assured me this plane could make it with no problem. I can’t go back! Don’t you understand?” His voice rose in pitch almost to the point of cracking.

“I think you’re the one that don’t understand. We can’t make it on three engines with a payload this heavy. Got to turn around and find a place to put her down for repairs. Our best bet’s Godthab, Greenland. Get the oil leak fixed—day or two at the most.”

As the pilot turned, Bristol stood and grabbed him by the shoulder. “No! You must keep going.” He was almost a foot shorter than the burly pilot and immediately realized his bad judgment.

The pilot balled his fist in Bristol’s face. “Don’t force me to explain it again, little man. Remember, you’re not even supposed to be on this plane. Now park it and shut up.” He shoved Bristol back into the seat, turned, and made his way between the large wooden crates until he disappeared into the cockpit.

Bristol felt the plane bank. There was no going back. As far as the world he left behind was concerned, he was dead. Dead and buried. He had to convince the pilot to change his mind. Maybe he could appeal to the man’s greed. His foot nudged the duffel bag under his seat—so full of cash he could almost smell it.

He stood and pulled his coat around him. There was hardly any heat—another thing that annoyed him. Jumpy by nature, he looked around his surroundings with darting eyes, magnified through the thick lenses of wire rimmed glasses. Determined, he maneuvered past the rows of crates until he stood at the cockpit door. How much should he offer? What did it matter? He had to do whatever it took. Opening the door, he stepped inside.

The only other person on board was the copilot, a skinny man with beady eyes and a scraggly beard. He busied himself at the controls as the pilot turned to Bristol. “I told you to stay put.”

Bristol took a hesitant step forward. “I’ll pay you twice what we agreed.”

“We’re losing a hundred feet per minute.” The copilot’s voice was anxious.

“How can that be?” The pilot scanned the array of instruments. “What the hell’s going on?”

“It’s number two.” The copilot pointed to a set of dials.

“All right, triple the price.”

“Shut up!” the pilot yelled.

Bristol started to make another offer but the words never came. The DC-4 vibrated violently followed by a loud bang and the shriek of ripping metal.

“Oxygen!” the pilot called out and grabbed his mask. He turned to Bristol and pointed to an extra mask hanging over the vacant navigator’s position. “Put it on.”

Bristol grabbed the oxygen mask and shoved it to his face. The plane’s nose dropped, and he saw the churning expanse of storm clouds ahead. “What happened?” His voice was muffled behind the thick rubber.

“Propeller blade,” the pilot shouted. “Ripped off number two. Must have torn through the fuselage. We’ve lost cabin pressure.” He shut down number two engine then keyed his microphone. “Mayday! Mayday! Godthab tower, this is Arctic Air Cargo 101. We’ve lost cabin pressure and two engines. Request emergency instructions. Godthab tower, do you read?”

“Nothing but static!” the copilot said while he adjusted the knobs and dials of the radio transmitter. “We’re not getting through.”

“Keep giving out our position,” the pilot ordered as the plane plummeted into the clouds.

Like bouncing off a wall the DC-4 bucked and pitched, sending Bristol to the floor. He hit his head and felt blood flow down his face.

The tremors worsened as the pilot struggled with the controls. “I can’t turn her, rudder’s frozen. Propeller must have severed the cables.” He ripped his mask off when the altitude needle passed the ten-thousand-foot mark. The plane tossed and rocked as it continued its steady drop into the belly of the storm.

“Get back to your seat and strap in,” the pilot shouted to Bristol.

He turned to start back when the plane shook again. This time, he thought it would rip apart. Thrown forward, he smashed into one of the large wooden crates that filled the cargo bay. His head and shoulder struck with a crack, burning pain shot through his arm. Blood flowed into his eyes. He heard the wind scream across the jagged slash in the fuselage. Groping his way to his seat he swiped the blood from his forehead on his sleeve and grabbed the duffel bag.

When the plane broke through the clouds, Bristol glared out the window and saw what he thought were lights of a small town passing underneath. As quickly as they appeared, they were gone, replaced by a dense shroud of swirling white.

The DC-4 leveled off as if it were about to land. The pilot must see a place to put the plane down, Bristol thought. A cautious feeling of relief swept over him. Had the pilot heard the offer of more money? No. Too much noise and confusion. Bristol looked out the window again. For a precious few seconds a break in the storm revealed what looked like a vast colorless ocean with row upon row of giant waves frozen in place, stretching off to the horizon. What kind of nightmarish scene was this? Were his eyes playing tricks? Had the bump on his head caused him to hallucinate?

There was a rumble—must be the landing gear dropping into place. They were going to land! Bristol pressed his cheek against the cold window trying to see what lay ahead. The strange landscape rushed by—the white ocean got closer. Once they landed, he figured they could wait for the storm to pass then make their way back to the town. He would find a place to stay while the plane was repaired. A few days at the most, the pilot had said. A small price to pay for committing the perfect crime and getting away with murder. A reassuring smile crossed Bristol’s lips. Strapping himself in, he wrapped his arms around the duffel bag, holding his breath.

Like a specter appearing out of a nightmare, Arctic Air Cargo 101 swooped down and glided in across the top of the Greenland ice cap. The driving wind of the season’s worst blizzard had built up huge banks of tightly packed snow and ice. The instant the plane’s front gear bit into the white powder, the nose rammed into a snow bank and the impact crushed the cockpit killing the pilot and copilot. Bristol’s seat ripped from the floor. Still strapped in, he flew forward and collided with one of the cargo crates.

The old DC-4 groaned and shrieked as the snow swallowed it, the sounds of its agony nearly smothered by the roar of the blizzard. When only the tip of the tail stuck above the snowfield, the ripping and tearing finally stopped.

Dizzy and numb, Henry Bristol opened his eyes. In the fading glow of the cargo bay lights, all was finally calm and quiet—the howling of the storm now distant and muffled. He told himself that it was only a matter of time before a search party would come. He had always been a patient man. This time would be no different. Steam drifted up from the wound on his head as he hugged the bag and waited.

Joe Moore is co-president emeritus of the International Thriller Writers. His newest novel is THORPE’S CANDLE. Previously, with Lynn Sholes, he wrote THE DESTINY CODE, BRAIN TRUST, THE TOMB, THE SHIELD, THE BLADE (bestselling Kindle book), THOR BUNKER, THE PHOENIX APOSTLES (#1 bestselling Kindle book) along with the Cotten Stone Thriller series: THE GRAIL CONSPIRACY (#1 bestselling Kindle book), THE LAST SECRET, THE HADES PROJECT, and THE 731 LEGACY. Joe’s novels have appeared on numerous international bestseller lists and have been translated into over 24 languages.

Jump into the action with the second of the Maxine Decker thrillers by bestselling authors Sholes and Moore!

Chapter 1 – Night Visitor

Big Bear Lake, Colorado

I sat up, startled from sleep. My first muddled thought was earthquake. The walls and windows of my cabin shuddered, shaking a picture off the wall. But then I quickly recognized the thunderous roar of a turbojet helicopter. A beam of bright light shone through the window blinds. Instinct kicked in and I rolled to my side and snatched the SIG Sauer from the nightstand drawer.

The chopper’s spotlight swept away and I used the opportunity to run to the living room with both hands locked on the 9mm’s grip.

From the light seeping through curtains and blinds I could tell my entire front yard and surrounding area were lit up as if the sun had kicked the moon to the curb. The sound of the helicopter landing was unmistakable.

I stood flush against the wall, gun still gripped with both clammy hands.

A rap on the door made me flinch, and I took aim. I’d already been shot twice in my life and had no intention of this being number three.

“Maxine Decker?”

Another strident knock.

“Agent Decker?”

“Who’s there? What do you want?”

“I need to speak with you regarding important government business.”

I edged my way to stand beside the door and pulled on a slat in the sidelight mini-blinds for a view of the porch. Backlit by the brilliance of the chopper’s spotlight was a man of medium height and trim build. Other than that, he was nothing but a silhouette.

“Identify yourself,” I yelled over the noise of the rotors.

“Peter Kepner. I’m with the government and I need to speak to you right away.”

“You must be out of the loop, Kepner. I’m no longer a federal agent. I retired from OSI.”

“I’m not OSI. I’m an emissary from Beowulf.”

“Never heard of it. And if you’re not OSI, then why do you want to talk to me?”

“In times of national security issues, Beowulf has executive authority to recruit CIA, FBI, NSA, even Air Force Office of Special Investigations agents. Retired or otherwise.”

“Tell the pilot to kill the light and shut down the engine. And tell anyone else on

board to stay put. Do it now.”

The man relayed my demand through hand signals and his radio. The spotlight dimmed and the rotors trimmed down to a slow idle.

I switched on the front porch light and pulled back the blinds on the sidelight.

“Turn around slowly.”

Kepner did a 360.

“Show me some ID. And remember I have my weapon pointed at you.”

“Got it. But for security reasons, I don’t carry any special identification. I can show you my driver’s license and a couple of credit cards.”

“I’m not Walmart, so you’re gonna have to come up with something better than that.”

He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “Agent Decker, I have something for you. I’m sliding it under the door.”

I let the blinds snap back and saw the end of the envelope poke through. I picked it up and switched on the lamp on the foyer table. My curiosity was aroused by the embossed seal—the image of a fire-breathing dragon. Beowulf. I remembered the ancient epic poem I’d had to study in high school.

I checked to see that Kepner was still there. Then with a zip of my finger I slit the envelope.

I withdrew the stationery, shook it open, and held it close to the light. Seeing the letterhead, I whipped around and glared at the door.

Then my eyes swept the length of the paper. At the top of the stationery was the official White House letterhead. At the bottom was the supposed signature of Guy LeClaire, President of the United States.

Slowly I read the contents, then took a moment to digest it. I retrieved my cell phone from the charger on my nightstand and returned to the living room.

“You still out there, Kepner?” I called.

“Still here.”

I did a quick Google search and came up with the phone number I needed to dial according to the instructions in the letter—the White House switchboard. When my call was answered, I continued to follow the directions I was given in the letter. “I’d like to speak with Tennyson.”

“One moment, please,” the operator said.

A few seconds later, a synthesized voicemail told me to leave a message. I glanced at the letter to make sure I would reply exactly right. “I have read The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

Then I hung up and waited.

In a moment, my cell rang. “Maxine Decker,” I answered.

“Ms. Decker, this is Guy LeClaire.”

His words were steady and unmistakable with that distinctive, crisp Boston accent.

My voice had a small tremor in it, both because I was speaking with the President of the United States and because I knew that whatever the reason for Kepner’s visit, it was of utmost importance. “Yes, Mr. President?”

“I apologize for this late-night visit and call. We have a critical matter that requires swift and efficient measures. You’re needed to participate in a special assignment. Please invite Mr. Kepner inside so he can speak to you. He’ll give you more details.”

Before I could say anything else, he thanked me once more and ended the call. I stood there a minute trying to absorb what just happened. I unlocked the front door, thankful I wasn’t the sheer nightie type, instead wearing long flannel pajama bottoms and a loose-fitting tee.

With a wave of my arm, I invited Peter Kepner inside. I decided to claim the overstuffed chair and leave the sofa to him. Even though I felt confident that the visitor was legitimate, I conspicuously rested the SIG on my lap, one hand atop it. With the kind of business I’d been in for so many years, if I’d learned one thing, it was never to let my guard down. Being betrayed by my partner a few years back had clinched that for me.

I gestured for my visitor to take a seat on the couch opposite me.

Kepner sat, eyed the gun, then looked squarely at me.

“Why the personal visit, Mr. Kepner? Why not a phone call? And why couldn’t it have waited until morning? For drama’s sake?”

Other than a condescending smile, Kepner didn’t react to my jab. “What I’m about to disclose is top secret, and I can’t emphasize that enough. As with all electronic communication, there is the outside possibility of unwanted surveillance. That explains my personal visit. And, we need to move on this ASAP. Waiting until the morning would delay our response.”

Kepner leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, fingers laced. “You were a hell of a civilian OSI agent. Top in the antiquities black market. That’s why you’re Beowulf’s choice for this project.”

“Like I said, I’ve never heard of Beowulf.”

“And that’s a good thing—the way it’s supposed to be, Agent Decker.”

He wasn’t going to let go of the agent title no matter how many times I said I was retired.

Kepner steepled his fingers then aimed them at me. “Here’s the deal. There’s been a serious breach of security at the Beowulf headquarters.”

“Excuse me, but first would you elaborate a little more on what exactly Beowulf is? What’s the function or mission?”

“I can’t give you any more explanation until we are in a protected and secure environment. All I can do at this point is echo the request from the President that your assistance is needed to help with a potentially grave threat to our national security. The United States and its allies are at risk. I would like for you to get ready and leave with me as quickly as you can.”

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t return to my old occupation in any fashion. I’d consulted on one job after retiring and it had nearly gotten me killed. But this . . . this sounded like something critical that truly put the nation in peril. I felt my resolve softening.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”

“So you want me to take off with you to an undisclosed location to help with an undisclosed mission involving a government operation I’ve never heard of? Right now, in the middle of the night?” I plastered a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me expression on my face.

“That’s about it.”

I chuckled. “Who said the government doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

His expression quickly reverted to somber and so did mine. This was obviously a no-bullshit situation.

“Just one more thing. Don’t pack a bag—no clothes or toiletries. But bring your ID, including your passport. Everything else will be provided for you.”

I thought the request to take my passport was strange, especially since he carried so little. “Why my passport?”

Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore are the #1 Amazon and international bestselling authors of THE SHIELD, THE BLADE (bestselling Amazon Kindle book), THE PHOENIX APOSTLES (#1 bestselling Amazon Kindle book) and the award-winning Cotten Stone thriller series: THE GRAIL CONSPIRACY (#1 bestselling Amazon Kindle book), THE LAST SECRET, THE HADES PROJECT, and THE 731 LEGACY. Their novels have been translated into 24 languages and are available online or at your favorite bookstore.

Here is a treat! Hot off the press, read the beginning of The Tesla Legacy, the sequel to the award-winning The World Beneath. We bet you’ll love it!

PROLOGUE Winter, 1896 46 E. Houston Street New York, New York

Most men would not care about a simple pigeon, but Nikola Tesla was not most men. And so, when the pigeon found him in the vastness of the city, he recognized her as his own. Each dawn, her white wings cut through the cold air of New York and carried her over the bustle of horses and men to his windowsill. In the many months he had known her, she had come to trust him enough to feed from his palm, her cold beak tapping against his skin.

On this winter morning, he stood with his window thrown open longer than usual, waiting for her. He checked his gold pocket watch again and again.

Finally, a white dot appeared against the gray light of dawn. The dot stuttered and dropped in changing air currents. Worry fluttered in his heart as he watched her erratic flight.

She landed on the snowy windowsill, scattering clots of snow onto his rug and down toward the street below. With extreme care, he cupped her body. Her feathers were scarcely colder than the flesh beneath. Her silver eyes looked dull, but showed no alarm—she trusted him.

He brought her inside to the perch in an empty cage next to his bed. His other pigeons cooed in their cages, but she took no notice of them. Her head drooped down to her white breast. She had spent her energy reaching him.

When she warmed, he would feed her. His pigeon keeper, Mr. Smith, would arrive later that morning, and Nikola would ask him what else they could do for her. Mr. Smith had a deep knowledge of pigeons and their maladies. Surely he could make her well.

Nikola washed his hands and watched her from his stiff chair. With each blink, her familiar silver eyes disappeared for longer and longer, until they failed to open at all. Her chest no longer vibrated with breath.

With a sigh, he lifted the limp body from her perch. She had come to him, not to be healed, but to die in warmth and peace. At least he had been able to grant her that.

He cradled the soft body between his palms before placing her inside a plain wooden box lined with a monogrammed handkerchief. He wrapped the warm silk around her like a shroud. Later, he would bury her in the park, but he must first do his day’s work.

He set the box on the table next to his bed, washed his hands again, and went to breakfast. He met with Mr. Smith to tell him only that the white pigeon had passed away, and that he would bury her himself. Mr. Smith said that nothing more could have been done for her, and she was fortunate to have a safe, loving place to take her last breaths. Nikola only nodded, and Mr. Smith did not press him further.

Mr. Smith was the only person who understood about Nikola and the pigeon. Other men would have considered him mad, but Nikola had loved the hen for a long time. The sight of her coming for her morning corn had moved him more than the arrival of his most distinguished visitors. Today was to have been a day of triumph, but melancholy had marred it. She, the most loving constant in his life, had left him.

Her image followed him down to his basement. With one hand in the pocket of his overcoat, he walked through the empty room. Today’s experiment must be conducted here, and not in his upstairs laboratory—not in front of his assistants. He wanted no announcements in the press before he was ready, as had happened so often before.

Tall wood-framed cages held the tenants’ belongings—ordinary items like bedding and furniture and brass candlesticks. Between the cages ran a line of steel columns. Those steel bars faithfully bore the weight of the building above. Taken for granted, they performed their essential task year after year, unyielding and eternal.

He stopped next to the column in the center of the room. Its base rooted deep into the earth beneath his feet, and its crown rose far above his head. This humble steel would serve as the perfect material on which to test his newest device.

When he drew a metal object about twice the size of a deck of cards from the pocket of his jacket, a feeling of satisfaction dulled his grief. He held the device in his palm just as he had recently held the pigeon, with reverence. An uninformed observer would see only the object’s square base with its dial and a curiously turned steel cylinder rising a few inches from the top. This rounded casing could withstand temperatures of more than two hundred degrees and pressure of more than four hundred pounds per square inch.

Nikola visualized the highly efficient pistons he had built inside, supreme examples of the art and skill that marked his peculiar genius.

His long fingers stroked the casing. Ordinary looking, but holding immense power. He had built it to test a principle that appeared innocuous, but could destroy Earth itself—a bountiful earth that contained him, his family, and, until recently, a precious white pigeon.

No one else had recognized this resonance, nor thought to harness it, because no one else heard the vibrations of objects as he did. No one else but he felt the telltale tremble of everyday things with their fingertips.

Using simple wooden clamps, he affixed the device to the steel column, tugging on the cylinder to make certain that it couldn’t be dislodged easily. He touched two fingers to the thick column so that his fingertips barely grazed the metal. With the other hand, he turned the dial.

He pictured pistons inside moving in silent precision as they slowly accelerated to the requested speed, like a pigeon pumping its wings to fly. For a long moment he stood next to the column with his head cocked, listening with his ears as well as his fingers. He adjusted the device’s oscillation rate. Again, he waited and listened. He repeated this action countless times, seeking to tune his Oscillator to the natural vibration of the steel.

Eventually, the metal under his fingertips trembled to a faint life. His device had matched the frequency of the steel’s resonant frequency. Time would do the rest.

He left the Oscillator to its work while he unlocked a wooden storage unit containing spools of wire, a stained metal table holding egg-shaped globes of blown glass, and a ladder-back chair. He grasped the chair by its top rung and placed it next to the column, then dusted the seat with his handkerchief, sat, and crossed one long leg over the other. Again, he placed two fingers against the steel, like a doctor feeling for a pulse.

The metal’s deep song thrummed through his fingers and up his arm. The music vibrated in the synovial fluid in his shoulder, trilled through his stomach, and pressed against his ears. He closed his gray eyes to concentrate on the metal’s song, and a small smile crossed his pale face.

He was in tune with the steel.

Mesmerized, he listened too long. The steel trembled too quickly. An ordinary man might not have seen the change, but he did. Tiny oscillations, no bigger than a pigeon’s heartbeat, shivered the length of the column.

The column cracked, like lake ice breaking free after winter.
Sounds intruded on his consciousness—a siren, the tinkle of breaking glass, the creak of other steel columns flexing. His device had succeeded, but perhaps too well.

With one decisive movement, he stood and reached to turn it off. Hot steel seared his fingertips. He gritted his teeth and tried again, but the dial had frozen in position, and the clamps, too, would not budge.
His device pounded remorselessly on.

His usually calm heartbeat sputtered in his chest. If he didn’t stop the motion soon, the column itself might shatter. Even the surrounding columns might break apart. If so, this beautiful building would collapse and bury its occupants, including him and his pigeons upstairs. He would not let this building become their tomb.

He wheeled on the heel of one patent leather shoe and ran for the cage. Thinking it a useless precaution the night before, he had nonetheless given in to a niggling doubt. He had taken a sledgehammer from its usual location in the corner and rested its handle against the table’s edge.

Now he was grateful he had. In two long steps he reached the hammer. He wrapped his long white fingers around the handle and returned to his device. He lifted the hammer high and brought its head down on the deceptively small cylinder. The metal case cracked, but gears within continued to turn. He had engineered his device to withstand shock and force. Again, he brought down the hammer, and yet a third time.

The gears shrieked like a baby bird as metal ground against metal. He flinched, then hardened his heart against his creation. He smote it blow after blow until the misshapen steel fell to the floor and was still. He had stopped its mechanical heart.

Heavy fists pounded on the front door to the building, and angry voices outside shouted for admittance. He had only minutes before one of his neighbors let them inside. He must not be found down here with the device. It was still too hot to touch, so he kicked it into a corner with the toe of his shoe. He polished that toe against the back of his immaculate trousers, smoothed his hair, and settled his jacket into place.

His long legs skipped every other stair as he flew to his laboratory. He entered and closed the door quietly behind him. His assistants looked at him with surprise. He smiled to allay their suspicions and glanced around the laboratory.

Glass had broken in this room, too. The windows had given way, and one assistant sported a thin cut across his cheek. An oval bulb lay shattered on the floor.

His device’s power was writ large in the destruction that surrounded him.

Curious and exhilarating to think that something so small could produce such dramatic changes in the world. Yet he himself, like every man on Earth, had grown from something as small as an egg.
Angry voices grew louder. He couldn’t yet make out their words, but he understood the tone and recognized an Irish accent. The local constabulary, then.

Knuckles rapped against the door to his laboratory. Nikola glanced around once before calling out, “Enter!”

The door slammed open, and two men strode inside. They looked like life-size windup dolls in matching blue uniforms with silver buttons and with handlebar mustaches and worried eyes. They glared at him, although they could not know that he was at fault.

“There was an earthquake!” shouted the one in front, the leader. He was the fatter of the two, and he had the larger mustache—blond shrubbery against a face as freckled as a plover’s egg.

“A horse fell down and was almost run over by the cab.” The other policeman clenched his meaty fists.

“I don’t suppose you know about that?” asked the leader.

Both men hovered in the wooden doorway as if afraid to venture inside.

Nikola would not have let the building bury his hen, or himself. “The danger is past.”

“What danger do you mean? Why is it past?” The man’s freckles squirmed when he spoke.

“Why, the earthquake. I felt it here in the laboratory.” Nikola gestured to the broken glass on the floor so that they would see he hadn’t been spared. “It knocked my bulbs off the table and broke my windows, but it is over now, yes?”

Such a machine! It intrigued him; it did not frighten him. His heart soared at the thought of what such a device could do—send messages perhaps, or destroy rock for mining. Glorious possibilities flashed through his mind. If only mankind had the wisdom to harness such power for good use.

The freckled policeman looked at him with his mouth still partially open. Native intelligence and suspicion shone from his snapping blue eyes. “Just a simple earthquake then?”

“What else could it be, my good man?” Their imaginations could conceive of nothing but this natural explanation.

The man fingered the long black stick he carried in his belt. He looked as if he wanted to take it and strike Nikola.

Nikola drew himself up to his full height and stared him down. “That will be all.”

Anger flashed across the man’s face, but he turned away, dismissed. He had not found what he sought, and so he retreated.
Nikola thought again of the wisdom and courage his beloved bird had displayed by knowing how to find him and coming across snow and cold to say farewell. He had never met a person like her. And he never would.

He had already filed a patent for his device, which he had named the Oscillator, but he must revise the patent’s specification so that the device could not be built properly from those plans. Mankind was not ready for a weapon of such power.

He would rebuild the device, refine, and test it again, until he knew that he could control it, because he could not leave it uncompleted. After that, he would hide it away. The true device could be used only by one of uncommon courage and wisdom. He doubted that he would ever come to know such a person.
And so the device must remain hidden.

June 28, 1983 Mianus River Bridge Greenwich, Connecticut

George Tesla was drunk. This wasn’t new for him, but the reason was. He was going to be a father. Fifty years old, and he’d knocked up a thirty-year-old carnie. Someone careful enough to live through a trapeze act ought to be careful enough to not get pregnant. But she hadn’t been.

Tatiana flat-out refused to talk about abortion or adoption or any sensible solution to the problem. She was perfectly willing to talk about leaving him to raise the baby alone, but nothing else. Her mind was set.

He leaned against the cold side of the bridge and took a long sip of Jack Daniel’s from his silver hip flask. He’d bought the flask when he was first made professor of mathematics at New York University. Another thing that would have to change, since Tatiana had told him she had no intention of giving up performing to move to New York and be a faculty wife. He couldn’t imagine the fiery Romanian trading her sequined leotards for wool skirts and pearls.

He dropped the flask in the pocket of his tweed jacket, where it clinked against the other metal object he carried. Before he met Tatiana, he’d gone on a quest to find this little thing. It had been hidden before his birth, but he’d found it anyway. He’d carried it around for years—its weight a constant reminder that he was squandering a great legacy. Many things were possible for those smart enough and daring enough. He suspected that he was neither.

A car roared down the road, its headlights blinding him. For good measure, the driver honked at him—another good citizen chastising him for being up here on a public road, drunk, at one in the morning. But he had nowhere else to be.

Seventy feet below, the black river rolled along like tar. If he jumped, that would solve his problem. He filed this away for later consideration.

He fumbled the metal object out of his pocket and set it on the railing next to him. It didn’t look like much—a square metal base with a cylinder sticking out the top—but Nikola Tesla had told his father that it could do great things. Nikola Tesla had patented it, but it had never worked. George wondered if he had patented a flawed device on purpose, to discredit his own theory. If so, maybe the object next to him could do great things.

He tapped his flask against the side of the device in a fake toast. “To great things. For one of us.”

The device didn’t answer, so he wasn’t that drunk. Maybe it knew it wouldn’t work.

But if it didn’t work, why had its creator entrusted the secret of its existence to only one man? George’s father said that he was the only one who knew about it, and he must have been, because once George had figured out its location, he’d found the device waiting for him. If anyone else had known where to find it, they would have taken it.

He dumped the flask and the device into his pocket and swung one leg over the railing. He wasn’t going to jump. He was a scientist, and he was going to do an experiment.

He rested his feet against the outside lip of the bridge. The river rushed below, dark and deep and cold, and he held on to the cold metal railing with both hands. At least now nobody above could see him and beep at him.

Eventually, he persuaded himself to unclench one hand from the railing. It took him a few tries, because he was working one-handed, and he nearly dropped the device twice, but eventually he managed to clamp it to the side of the bridge. The device stuck out like an accusing finger. Like Tatiana’s accusing finger.

He cocked his head and listened. No cars close by. The bridge was empty. Timing wouldn’t get any better than this. Time to start his experiment.

He turned the tiny dial on the top of the device. It immediately started thumping away. He gaped at it. He’d replaced the power source with batteries, but he hadn’t expected the old mechanism to work. He played with the dial, trying to match the natural resonance of the steel. Eventually, he seemed to get it dialed in, because the bridge started to vibrate against his stomach.

It didn’t feel like much, maybe like a truck driving by. Not even a truck. A car. A little convertible. Not a threat.

Headlights appeared in the distance, and he swore. From the sound of the engine, a semi-trailer truck was approaching. Probably nothing to worry about, but he ought to shut the thumper down just in case. He reached for the device, missed it on his first drunken swipe. Was it his imagination, or was the bridge shaking?

Heat blistered his fingertips when he touched the dial, and it didn’t budge. He couldn’t turn the damn thing off. He could let go and fall in the water, let all this be someone else’s problem, but his hand refused to release the railing. Maybe fear, or maybe a sense of responsibility.

Either way, he had to do something. He pulled the flask out of his pocket and used it to pound on the device. It moved a hair, then another. The truck thundered closer, its driver completely oblivious. Another truck was tucked behind it. A convoy, trucking through the night.

When the truck hit the span George was holding on to, the bridge let out a tremendous crack. The device fell, and he instinctively caught it, his hand slipping off the bridge.

He tumbled toward the river. His feet hit the water first. It felt like he’d landed on concrete, and the force drove him deep underwater. He fought for the surface. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to stand by Tatiana. He wanted to see his child.

By the time his head broke the surface, he’d traveled a hundred yards downstream, still clutching the device. The span he’d been standing on had collapsed. He watched as a semi barreled right over the broken edge of the bridge and landed nose-down on the stony bank where another truck had already fallen. The drivers were likely dead.

Another car piled on, then a screech of brakes.

His head went under. He still held the device. It had burned his palm, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t let it out of his possession.

He’d killed the men in those trucks, the people in that car. One drunken mistake, and now those people weren’t going home to their families, to their daughters and sons. He could never make that right.
The current dragged him relentlessly onward.

Present day

Subway tunnels trap New York’s heat. Heat soaks into sticky pavements and tired sidewalks. Hot, humid air blows into the tunnels’ open mouths and lingers in the dark places until fall.

Joe Tesla tried to pretend he enjoyed the heat in the upper tunnels, but it reminded him of the second ring of hell. Summer was meant to be spent outside, basking in the sun, his father had always said. Good times, not the second ring of hell.

Joe walked between steel rails that brought trains from the rest of New York into Grand Central Terminal. His service dog, a golden retriever/yellow Labrador mix named Edison, panted at his side. They were performing what was becoming a daily ritual in which Joe went to the limits of the darkness, just to see if today he could break out into the light. Aversion therapy, psychiatrists called it.

It wasn’t working, but he would not give up. Today, more than ever, he wanted to break free of his self-imposed darkness and go outside into the light and fresh air. He wanted to go outside to say good-bye.
Ahead, a square of daylight beckoned. Gray light filtered in at the end of the rectangular tunnel. He drank in the sight of shining silver tracks, a bird’s shadow on the ground, a tree in the distance. A real, green, living tree. Outside.

He’d long ago memorized the train schedules, and he and Edison had enough time to make it to the light before the next one arrived. Following his training, Edison stayed closed by Joe’s leg and far from the third rail. They were safe, from trains at least.

Joe knelt to cover Edison’s sensitive ears as a scheduled train approached on a nearby track. It posed no threat to him, but he worried that the noise couldn’t be good for the dog. The animal’s brown eyes met his, calm as always. Nothing seemed to faze the yellow dog. If Joe could be like one creature on Earth, he’d pick Edison. Not that he got to pick.

The train passed, and Joe let go of the dog and started forward again. He was still in the shadows where the gray light didn’t reach. Hot outside air stroked his cheeks. It smelled of cinder and smog, but also a little of the sea and green grass, or so he liked to think.

He walked toward the light, and his breathing sped up. He forced himself to slow his breaths, hoping that would calm him down, but knowing it wouldn’t. He fought this knowledge with each shuddering breath. He wiped his wet forehead on his sleeve and kept breathing.

Then full adrenaline kicked in. His heart got into the action, beating at twice its normal rate. It felt as if he’d just sprinted across a football field.

If his heart didn’t stop racing, he was going to die. Panic coursed through his veins. He had to run back into the tunnels. He’d be safe there.

He used every scrap of willpower to keep his trembling legs from bolting down the tunnel of their own accord. He wasn’t going to die. Nobody ever died of a panic attack. He repeated that twice, as if his body might believe the words. It didn’t. But today he had to try harder. For his mother’s sake. And his father’s.

First, he must get his heart under control. He closed his eyes and imagined he was somewhere safe. He was standing in front of his underground house. The house was a yellow Victorian, with red and white trim, bright and sturdy, protected in its cocoon of rock. Its paint gleamed in the orange light shed by round, hand-blown light bulbs strung overhead.

He pictured each detail—the three steps up to the front porch, the white door he dusted until it gleamed, the wrought-iron wall lantern that he always left on, the windows upstairs and down decorated with stained-glass flowers and leaves. Inside that house, he was safe. He took a deep breath. Safe.

Keeping the picture of his house in his head, he took a step forward. He didn’t dare open his eyes. Edison pressed against his leg, and the contact comforted Joe. He wasn’t alone. Edison was always there. He took another step.

Hot air brushed his face, a breeze from outside. He opened his eyes the tiniest crack. A thread of light leaked in. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard it felt as if it might break out of his chest and roll into the tunnels behind him.

His breath came fast and ragged. He tried to control his breaths, slow them down, but his body had taken over. His tense muscles begged to flee. He was so close to the outside. And he couldn’t take another step.

Retching, he leaned forward. Edison fastened his teeth on Joe’s pant leg and pulled. He tottered, terrified he might fall into the light. He caught his balance and let the dog pull him backward, step by step, into the familiar darkness.

His stomach roiled. The first time he’d tried this had been after breakfast, and he’d thrown up on the tracks. He knew better now, and came here only on an empty stomach.

Edison nudged his nose under Joe’s hand and tilted his head back. He urged Joe to pet him, to relax. Joe ran his hand along the dog’s warm back. His legs still shook, but he didn’t feel as if he were about to die anymore. He petted the dog, controlled his breathing, and slowly calmed down. He wasn’t going to die, but he wasn’t going to go outside either. Not today.

He’d turned his back on the light as he fled, but he faced it again now. The entrance was an empty mouth that mocked him. The light and wind and trees might be forever out of his reach. But he had gone nearly a yard farther than yesterday. Not enough, but progress.

A train came through, again on a different track, and he covered the dog’s ears. The simple act of protecting Edison brought him all the way back to himself. After the train passed, he pulled a dog treat out of his pocket and gave it to Edison. “You earned this, buddy.”

The dog swallowed it in a single gulp.

Joe headed toward the tunnels that led to Grand Central Terminal. Today, his brain had betrayed him—something he’d grown to expect. Once, he’d prized his brain. It understood things that other brains didn’t. His brain had led him out of a difficult childhood into early entrance to Massachusetts Institute of Technology—on a full scholarship—while other boys his age were freshmen in high school. His brain had let him coast through his classes, earn his degrees, found his own company, and retire a multimillionaire before most people bought their first house. It had been a good brain, but now it wouldn’t even let him sit in the sunlight.

But he had to cut his brain some slack—it wasn’t at fault. Someone had poisoned it, and he had blood tests to prove that poison had caused his crippling agoraphobia. Since he’d found that out, he’d spent a great deal of time and money trying to discover who had poisoned him and why. He’d investigated everyone who had access to his food and drink on his last days outside, but all his inquiries had led nowhere.

A large key ring at his belt jangled when he stumbled over a train tie. The keys came with the house—they provided access to all the doors in the tunnel system. With these keys, he, and he alone, could open each door in his subterranean world and see what lay behind it. Too bad his brain wasn’t so straightforward.

Edison bumped Joe’s knee with his nose, as if to remind him he was OK. That his life still had good things. That he was safe.
If only it were that easy.

New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Cantrell’s novels have won the Bruce Alexander and the Macavity awards and been nominated for the Barry, Mary Higgins Clark, APPY, RT Reviewers Choice, and Shriekfest Film Festival awards. She and her husband and son just left Hawaii’s sunny shores for adventures in Hannah Vogel’s hometown–Berlin.

The Eden Thrillers have sold over half a million copies worldwide. Why? Start reading…

Saturday, November 10, 2007, 6:38 p.m. Tell el-Balamun, Egypt

Dr. Samuel Golding squinted, trying in vain to focus on the mud-yellow brick from the porch of the ancient temple he was unearthing . The young archeologist had spent the last three hours on his knees, painstakingly brushing silt and dirt from the object. With a sigh, he leaned back to squat on his heels and survey the dig site. The temple was much older even than the 3rd century library sitting above it, and he no longer had enough light to continue.

Another day was now over on this, the strangest dig he’d ever worked.
Sam was the Assistant Project Leader for the British Museum excavation at Tell el-Balamun and the de facto project head, since the team leader was not available due to the unusual timing of this off-cycle dig. This project in the Central Nile Delta of Egypt would not unearth the type of tourist-frenzied structures like Luxor or Giza—which suited him just fine. The team’s work on these ancient Egyptian temples could progress with little outside interference.

He started packing up his tools for the day. The porch would wait until tomorrow. It wasn’t going anywhere.

“’Night, Boss,” said his assistant, Ibrahim. “Going into town tonight?”

“Don’t think so,” Sam replied. He brushed the dust off his signature Sandhurst t-shirt and shook out his cargo pants.

It wasn’t simply that he was tired. He wanted time to mull. Odd things had been happening on this dig, and he wanted some peace and quiet to think.

He sat down on a canvas camp chair and poured himself a glass of chardonnay from a bottle he kept in his cooler. Sometimes, these bricks seemed to him to be miniature time machines. When he touched one, it was as if he were propelled back, hearing the voices and conversations of those who had stood in this place many centuries ago. He envisioned what they were wearing, heard the sounds of the city around them, smelled the odors of animals and incense.

But now there was a discordant note. He had found several objects in this dig that, while ancient, were not from this place or time period. In fact, not even close. How to report these?

He didn’t want to do anything that would call the validity of the whole dig into question. And yet…the pieces didn’t fit.

It was the time of evening military called EENT, or early evening nautical twilight. The horizon was becoming indistinct and stars were just beginning to twinkle. It looked like there would be little haze this evening, and the clear Egyptian night would provide a nice backdrop for the heavens in all their glory. Maybe he should have been an astronomer instead of an archeologist. No, scratch that. He could enjoy the night sky without knowing how far away the stars were or what made them twinkle. But he could not pass by a mound of earth without wondering what ancient treasure might be hidden beneath.

Sam sipped his wine and looked to the northwest just in time to spot a falling star.
Wow, what a nice tail on that one…

But it didn’t fade. Instead, it seemed to grow brighter, larger.

What?

He stood and stared, unmoving, as the fireball plummeted, hitting the ground with a loud explosion a half mile to his east. In one fluid move he dropped his wine glass and dove behind the nearest dirt pile, his mind flashing back to bombs exploding when he was a young officer in Northern Ireland.

Heads began popping out of tents, just in time to see another “falling star” close in and burn up just before hitting the ground a quarter of a mile to the west.

Within moments, the camp was in pandemonium, everyone running back and forth, searching for cover. Ibrahim and one of the local diggers who were heading into town were caught between the tents and the dig’s rattletrap car. They both made a run for the extra protection of the vehicle. It was a rusty old station wagon that had survived 20 years as transport for the team. Sam watched as they each dove in a door and rolled up the windows. He wondered if he would be safer joining them than lying sprawled behind a dirt pile.

What was going on?

And then there were more. It was like a hailstorm—if the hail was made of fire.
A much larger piece headed straight for Sam’s hiding place, then split in two at the last minute. One part burned up before reaching the ground, the other impacted the car where his fellow workers had taken cover.

The largest part of the rock had crashed through the roof of the car; other parts had shorn off and hit the doors of the vehicle. One had apparently ruptured the gas line. From where he was, Sam now smelled gasoline mingling with the burning sulfur from space.

“Get out!” he screamed, standing and rushing for the station wagon.

But it was too late.

Fire continued to rain down, and some landed, still burning, close enough to the vehicle that the fumes, then the spilled gasoline on the ground, and finally the remainder of the tank, ignited.

Sam covered his head but he felt the ground shake as the car exploded. He stayed flattened against the ground, fully expecting to be hit by debris from the explosion or the sky, fully expecting the next second to be his last on Earth.

It took a moment after the explosion for the ringing in his ears to stop, and for him to regain enough equilibrium to discern which way was up. Then he raised his head, saw the burning vehicle, and launched himself toward it.

He disregarded the continuing rain of fiery meteors as he tried desperately to get to his friends. He circled the car, looking for an opening, but the fire was so hot he couldn’t get close enough to open a door. He looked through the flames for some hint of movement within, but saw and heard nothing. Several others saw what had happened and also ignored personal safety to come and try to help.

There was nothing to be done. The car was obliterated.

Another five minutes of chaos, and then darkness, and silence. As suddenly as the firestorm had begun, it was over.

Team members began emerging from tents, moving slowly and carefully in case the danger wasn’t over. Grabbing flashlights, they looked for anyone who might require assistance.

What they found was Dr. Sam Golding standing motionless in front of a burning station wagon, wondering how the ancients would have responded to the gods showing their anger by sending a mighty firestorm to obliterate whatever and whoever was below.

For this was an act of destruction, one whose consequences would reverberate for years to come.

Why had it come into their dig? Their lives? Why had it taken two of their own?
Strands of horror, hurt, anger, and loss wove together inside of Sam, a feeling as primal as had been felt in this very spot, millennia before. He dropped to his knees, screaming from his gut, until he could scream no more.

Saturday, November 10, 2007, 1:05 p.m.

Cadet Chapel, United States Military Academy, West Point, New York

Jaime stood in the back of the Cadet Chapel at West Point, hidden from view by a series of screens and surrounded by her bridesmaids: best friend Lexi Kent Monroe, sister Susan and sister-in-law Dani.

Jaime didn’t mind officiating at weddings, though given her druthers, she’d choose a funeral any day. At funerals, people were always grateful. Weddings—well, weddings were never quite the dream-come-true, and you were likely to run smack into a dozen sets of expectations.

For many years of her life, Jaime had assumed she would never get married. Not that she had anything against marriage, but she tended to fall for knight-errant types who were too busy slaying dragons to consider applying for a mortgage.

And yet, ten years ago she had become engaged to, and had married, her first knight-errant, her long-time boyfriend Paul, in the space of a week so their dying friend could help plan and host the wedding. Paul had been killed three months later. Case in point.

Even knowing the very real dangers of marrying a knight-errant, Jaime had managed to find herself another one.

“Okay, okay, I have to say it,” injected Lexi in a stage whisper. “I can’t believe Shepard’s here! A freaking rock star! And you’re not having him sing!”

The mention of Mark Shepard’s name brought Jaime up short. They were all beyond excited about having an A-list celebrity among them.

“He sang at Jaime’s first wedding,” said Susan, then she stopped herself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up Paul. Oh, I mean—”

“It’s all right,” Jaime smiled. “Shepard and Paul were close.”

“Having him here is like having Paul’s blessing,” said Lexi.

Truth was, Jaime did feel like she had Paul’s blessing. Paul would have enjoyed Yani.

However, unbeknownst to the others, Jaime no longer thought of Mark solely in the context of Paul. It was hard to hear Mark’s songs or see photos of him without remembering a particularly wonderful afternoon in France in a hot tub—and remembering Mark’s sculpted torso and the happiness she and the musician had shared in each other’s company.

That particular night had not ended well, through no fault of Mark’s or her own.

Get a grip, Jaime, she breathed.

But why was he here?

The first notes of Handel’s “Water Music” reverberated through the huge Gothic chapel, and everyone’s adrenaline level skyrocketed. As Dani walked out from behind the screen and started up the aisle, Jaime closed her eyes. You’ve been in war zones. You’ve been kidnapped. You’ve locked yourself in the trunk of a maniac’s BMW. If you survived that, you can surely survive this.

Susan was off, and Lexi was ready to move into place.

“Hello, Jaime,” came the familiar voice that saved her, that pulled her back to herself. It was Abe Derry, under whom she had served during Operation Iraqi Freedom. There was no one, save her own father, whom she would rather have walk her down the aisle. Not to mention, as a two-star general, Abe looked extremely impressive in his uniform.

And as a Gardener, Abe knew Yani in a way that very few others here did.

“You’re marrying Sword 23, Jaime, really?” he said with a grin.

Yes, Sword 23—as Yani was still known—was a legend among Gardeners. And yes, she was marrying him.

At that moment, the first notes of the Trumpet Voluntary began, and she and Abe took their place at the center of the very long aisle.

Jaime looked forward, under the gothic arched ceiling, past the flags hanging from the walls on either side, past the rows of brown wooden pews crowned with red hymnals. The bridesmaids had taken their places to the left. Her brother Joey and the other two groomsmen stood to the right, and Lexi’s father, the Rev. Asher Kent, stood in the center of the aisle. Everyone had turned. All eyes were on her.

Yet all that mattered was Yani, standing at the front of the chapel, at the foot of the steps, smiling at her. Even now, there was a catch in her throat whenever she saw him. When she came home from a day’s work and walked into the kitchen to see him pulling out pita bread and opening hummus, she had to pretend everything was normal. But how could it ever truly be normal? Sword 23—Yani—William Jonathan Burton, according to his Terris birth certificate—was in her kitchen.

In her living room.

In her bedroom. In her bed.

Like it was a normal thing.

Holy crap.

She would marry him fifty times, if she had to, and she would pretend he was just another groom, every time she did it.

By the time Jaime reached the rows of her family and friends, her mood had lifted considerably. It had finally become real to her that after the reception, she and Yani would have a week away, just to themselves. A whole week. That had never happened Terris-side. And what a reception it would be!

The bride glanced to her left and saw activist and rock star Mark Shepard sitting on the aisle. Seated next to him was Chaplain Sherer, an old boss and mentor of Jaime’s, who’d met Mark at Jaime’s small wedding reception in Hochspeyer. The two of them got along well.

As Jaime passed their row, she saw that Mark was distracted. He smiled at her as she passed, but kept glancing down. As she moved on up the aisle, she saw him lose his battle with himself and thrust his hand into his pocket to dig out his phone.

Really? I know you’re a rock star, but you can’t turn your phone off at a wedding? What could be so important that it couldn’t wait fifteen minutes?

Then they were in front of the chapel, and Abe had handed her off to her husband. Together they followed Reverend Kent past the choir stalls and up the five marble steps to the altar. Yani’s jet-black hair was cut just below his ears, and his dark eyes flashed fire. His face was nearly perfectly oval, with a square jaw that could be set at a dangerous angle. But now his whole face was smiling.

As they turned to face each other, to join hands to take their vows, it happened.

The Eden Thrillers have sold over half a million copies worldwide. Plagues of Eden is the first book in the second trilogy, and a good place to start…unless you want to start at the beginning. The first book is Chasing Eden.

BIOS: Sharon Linnéais a biographer who also writes thrillers and mysteries. She lives outside New York City with her family. B.K. Sherer is a Presbyterian minister and an active duty chaplain with the U.S. Army.

Just nominated for a Lovey Award by the Mystery Writers and Readers of Chicago, Death and White Diamonds dives right in…

Chapter 1
Richie

The weather was changing, clouds blocking out the stars, wind whipping the surf into a frenzy. As high tide approached, the beach was nearly gone, just a narrow strip of sand between water’s edge and dune grass, the rhythm of the waves pounding at the shore, washing away the evidence. My attention was drawn to the distant lights of a lonely freighter. There was a chill in the air. I hardly noticed. The knife was still warm in my hand.

I looked down the beach. Not ten feet away lay Lorraine, her blouse ripped, an ugly gash just above her left breast, a delicate thread of blood making its way between her breasts and running down along her abdomen. I couldn’t take my eyes off the blood. Something in me stirred. Was it wrong that I saw her, at that moment, perhaps for the first time, achingly lovely?

I forced my eyes away from her chest and peered at my wristwatch, the hands luminous. Three a.m. We had walked down to the beach together shortly after midnight, through the dune grass, giggling. I’d been carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of merlot. Lorraine had been carrying a blanket. I remember thinking, at the time, the surf sounds angry. And then? I can’t remember. I’m fairly certain I wasn’t responsible for the death of Lorraine van Nessen. But it took no great powers of deduction to realize that I was going to be the prime suspect when Lorraine’s body was discovered. If Lorraine’s body was discovered.

I pictured Lorraine’s body floating out to the middle of Castleton Bay. I wondered how long it would take for her body to sink. And once it was submerged, I wondered whether it would stay underwater. I’d watched enough detective shows to realize that at least on television, bodies had a way of popping to the surface at the most inopportune moment, usually just before the first commercial break. I couldn’t take that chance.

Disposing of the body safely would be a gruesome bit of business. Still, I didn’t think Lorraine would mind.

Port Salmon was a ghost town in February, especially on the bay side of town, along Ocean Avenue, at three in the morning, the homes seasonal, rentals mostly, just a few hundred yards from the beach, but all of them empty during the off-season. Lorraine’s grandfather had built most of these homes and even in retirement, he looked after “his” houses. He remained one of the few year-round residents right up until the end. Lorraine was the only one left who made use of the house. And now that too was coming to an end.

I would have plenty of time to dispose of Lorraine’s body. I walked toward Ocean Avenue, turning back briefly to make sure that Lorraine wasn’t moving before hurrying back to the beach house. I didn’t have a plan, not at that point anyway. But I did have a glimmer of an idea.

I rooted through the cellar, searching for a proper tool. Fifteen minutes later I was back on the beach. As I made my way through the dune grass, I sensed a presence on the beach. I was not alone. Someone was crouching low over Lorraine. I held my breath, trying to get close enough to see without being seen. I looked again. Not someone, I realized. Something. A dog was sniffing at the body. I scanned the beach, praying the dog was a stray. Suddenly I felt bad for Lorraine.
Scat, I hissed, waving the hacksaw in the dog’s general direction. The dog snarled, but backed away. I threw a piece of driftwood down the beach and the dog took chase. I stared at Lorraine’s body, a woman’s body, plump and inviting, even in death, especially in death, her full hips, her perfect round breasts, the four inch gash just above her left breast. I’m sorry Lorraine, I whispered, for what I’m about to do.

It was slow work, with the hacksaw. Before long, I was breathing hard. My shirt was soaked with sweat, the sweat drying cold against my skin. I had to face a hard truth. I was out of shape, twenty pounds overweight, unused to physical labor. The hacksaw had not been designed to cut through sinew and bone. At least not by me. My arm grew numb, but I had little to show for my effort, her body scarred by the hacksaw blade, but still intact. I was making more mess than progress. The tide was coming in quickly now. I needed more time. Lorraine needed more time.

It’s funny, don’t you think? Whenever Lorraine wanted to talk about our relationship, about our future, I always put her off. We’ve got plenty of time for that later, I told her. All the time in the world. Now we needed more time.
Wrapping her scarred body in the blanket, I dragged Lorraine back through the dune grass. The path through the dunes was narrow and long. My feet sank in the soft sand. As I made my way through the dunes, the footing gradually grew firmer. When I reached the road that bordered the beach, I slung her over my shoulder and carried her across the street and down the deserted road until we arrived at the house. Pulling open the cellar door, I carried her body inside and collapsed in exhaustion at her side.

I imagine that most men would find it difficult to fall asleep next to a corpse, even if the corpse wasn’t your girlfriend, even if you weren’t about to be the prime suspect in her murder, even if you weren’t just a little bit turned on by the intimacy. I dipped my finger in the blood between her breasts. I drew my finger up to my lips. I wanted a taste. But that would be wrong. I kissed Lorraine lightly on the lips and said good-night.

I slept till mid-morning, on the floor in the cellar, Lorraine at my side, lying in a pool of dried blood and semen. I shook the stiffness from my shoulders and breathed in the day. The day, apparently, smelled of death and White Diamonds. Lorraine had a thing for Liz Taylor. Something about that made me happy.

I’m not a power tool kind of guy. When my friends talk about their home improvement projects, I fade into the background, silent, letting the do-it-yourselfers trade their tales of sheetrock and spackle, talking a language I don’t understand. I examined a large saw in the cellar, wondering what it was called – a table saw maybe – it didn’t really matter. Anything was better than making a second attempt with the hacksaw. I stared at the blade for several minutes before plugging in the saw.

Lorraine was obsessed with her weight, but she was not, in truth, a large woman. I had, on more than one occasion, picked her up and tossed her on the bed during intimate moments. But now that she was dead weight, moving her was more difficult. Lifting her, I stumbled and we both hit the floor hard. I got up slowly and rubbed my shoulder. Moving slowly now, I dragged her body up onto the table, pushing it toward the spinning blade. The machine hummed. I hummed along with it.

Making the first cut was hard, but the left hand came off easily enough. I tossed the hand in a trash bag at the foot of the saw and worked my way up her arm. I was encouraged by the results. I paused to admire the saw, the housing metallic red, the blade a beautiful steel gray, tipped in blood red. I was beginning to understand my friends’ fascination with power tools. I’d have one helluva story to tell, the next time we talked home improvement over a pitcher of pale ale.

Somehow I managed to block out the notion that it was Lorraine on the table, that it was Lorraine I was feeding to the whirring blade. Then I got to her head. Her blue eyes and blond hair. Her high cheekbones and full lips. I sat down on the cellar floor and gave myself permission to cry. I didn’t want to finish the job, but I knew there was no other way. It was time for me to man up. I cut through her neck, doing my best to avoid those baby blues staring at me, asking why. I put the head in its own trash bag, sealed it right away, and double bagged it. Once the head was removed, the job got easier. It wasn’t Lorraine anymore on the table. I found a rhythm to the job, systematically cutting and bagging and cleaning the detritus. I began to sing as I worked, without regard, at first for the song, one of my favorites, suddenly taking on a whole new meaning – The Right Tool for the Job. I smiled. It’s amazing how a little thing like that can brighten your whole day.

I tossed the final body part, Lorraine’s left foot and leg below the knee, into a trash bag and smiled at a job well-done. I looked at my watch. Two in the afternoon. It had taken nearly four hours to cut her up into disposable parts. I’d have to wait until dark before attempting to dispose of those parts. Until then, I needed a place to leave the trash bags. There was an enormous freezer in the cellar, large enough to feed a house full of guests in season. Out of season, it was easily large enough to handle Lorraine’s trash bags.

I was jazzed. I stood in front of the freezer, talking to the trash bags. I wished Lorraine were alive, so I could tell her what I had done. I had never felt quite as vibrant as I felt when I was cutting her up into little pieces. And I needed to tell her all about it. But isn’t that just like a woman? When they want to talk, they expect you to drop everything and listen. But now, when I really needed to talk to someone, Lorraine was ignoring me.

I’m not a handsome man. I’m just a little too short, a little too soft, my features a little too feminine. But covered in blood and dirt, I realized appearance was only a matter of perspective. Suddenly I felt taller, trimmer, more manly. I studied my features carefully. My face was rugged in a way I had never noticed before. I imagined myself dressed in tight blue jeans and white T-shirt, work boots and hard hat, endorsing a certain line of power tools.

I did a quick google search. You can find anything on the internet. Even so, it amazed me that they advertised so openly. There were hundreds of hits, the closest one just up the road a few miles. I’d never been to a massage parlor before. I consider myself a man of high moral standards. Under normal circumstances, I would never go to a place like that, never treat a woman that way. But these were not normal circumstances. Someone had murdered my girlfriend. I needed a woman to help me relax and Lorraine was no longer available.

I drove north on Route 9, looking for the Asian Paradise. I didn’t know what to expect and nearly turned back twice before spotting the small office building. It might have been an accountant’s office, or a dentist’s, but for the discreet sign in the window. I pulled my car into a space behind the office and parked, pleased to see a private entrance around back.

I tried the door, but it was locked. Perhaps it was closed for the winter. As I turned to leave, the door cracked open. An Asian woman of indefinable heritage and indeterminate age checked me out carefully. “Forty dollars,” she said, and smiled, pulling me inside the office.

For the next hour, it was all she said. I was relieved that she didn’t speak English. I didn’t want to know who she was, didn’t want to know what was on her mind. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do first. When she began to unbutton my shirt, I figured that I was supposed to get undressed. I stripped down to my boxer shorts and socks and waited. The Asian woman pointed and giggled. I knew what she meant, and slowly stripped off my boxer shorts. For reasons I didn’t entirely understand, I chose not to remove my socks. I lay face down on the massage table and waited.

As she worked on the knots in my shoulders, I found myself talking about Lorraine. We were not exactly lovers. What was the term the kids used? I tried to remember. Friends with benefits. That wasn’t quite right either. I wanted to explain, not for the Asian woman who was walking on my back. She had shown no evidence of knowing any English beyond her initial two-word greeting. No, I was talking to explain it to myself. Co-workers with benefits? That was closer to the truth. A matter of convenience for two lonely adults. Part of the company’s defined benefit package. Lorraine was an Assistant to the Vice President of Finance, five years older, two levels, at least, above me in the organizational chart. I was an entry-level quality assurance analyst, tracking performance by department. My job was to crunch numbers, and to display those numbers in fancy three-color pie charts, charts that were supposed to make the company look good, even when it wasn’t. I had a knack for making the numbers fit the company’s desired storyline. A generation past, I would have had a bright future at the company. But I knew it was only a matter of time before my job was outsourced to India. It was useful to have relations with an Assistant to the VP of Finance. I was going to miss her. “I’m going to miss Lorraine.”

The Asian masseuse climbed down off my back. I stopped talking while she finished the massage.

I dressed quickly and prepared to leave. The masseuse unlocked the door. “So sorry hear about Miss Lurlene. You come back, okay?”

I told myself it didn’t count as cheating. After all, Lorraine was dead. You can’t cheat on a corpse. A dismembered corpse at that. So why did I feel guilty? As I drove back to the house, I considered my options. I had come to Port Salmon at Lorraine’s urging, to spend a long week-end, off-season. I’m not one to understand the appeal of a deserted beach in the cold of February, but Lorraine had insisted, using words like trust, and commitment, and bonding. She promised me a week-end I would never forget. So why was it that I couldn’t remember what happened out there on the beach? Now Lorraine was dead, in pieces, in the freezer.

Some people might interpret my decision to chop her up as evidence of guilt. But they would be wrong. Chopping her into pieces had been a difficult, but necessary step to protect my own innocence. In my favor, no one knew I had come to Port Salmon with Lorraine. And no one knew that she was dead.

I couldn’t just carry the body parts down to the water’s edge and set them adrift like little toy boats, the S.S. Lorraine, a fleet of S.S. Lorraines, set them adrift in the current, and watch them sail off until, one by one, they sank to the bottom of the bay. Because, by morning, the currents would wash those body parts back up to shore. By morning, along with the seaweed and the hermit crabs, the driftwood, oyster shells and egg casings, the beach would be littered with Lorraine.

Jeff Markowitz is the author of the darkly comic mystery/thriller, Death and White Diamonds, as well as three books in the Cassie O’Malley mystery series. He loves to write early in the morning. “You can usually find me at my computer at 5:30 in the morning plotting someone’s murder.” When he’s not out looking for dead bodies, Jeff keeps busy as the founder and Executive Director of a nonprofit agency serving adults with autism. Jeff is a proud member of the International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

In the Agent Colt Shore books, Axel Avian is looking to putting the fun back into saving the world. The first book, Domino 29, has gained an enthusiastic following among teens and adults alike. Why? Start reading…

AGENT COLT SHORE: DOMINO 29

PROLOGUE

I’m locked in a small chapel, an oratory, in a Gothic castle. I’m badly hurt. With me are eleven girls, dressed in color-splashed tunics, pants and chadors. They’re terrified. We have three minutes. Three minutes to escape, or be captured.

A week ago, I was a normal kid. Not a secret agent at all.

As far as I can tell, it was one of those domino chain reactions. You’ve probably seen the videos where people set up thousands of dominos in a pattern, then push the first one and watch them all go. But did you know that, with dominos, a different kind of chain reaction is possible? That a domino the size of a tiny piece of gum can knock over the next one that’s one and a half times larger, and so on, until with twenty-nine dominos, you’ve started with one the size of gum and are knocking over one the size of the Empire State Building?

Has your life ever spiraled out of control like that? Where if you had changed just one thing, one tiny thing, none of the rest of it would have happened?

Never mind one thing leading to the next that is crazier, to the next, crazier yet—and before you know it, you’re in a huge castle in the Alps, injured, chased by men with guns, trying to save twelve lives.

For me, it all started because I got a pair of drumsticks out of my backpack.

CHAPTER ONE Everything Changes

Here’s the thing: it’s tough having an older brother who’s a hero. It’s even tougher when he’s dead, because as often as you screw up, he’s never going to screw up again. He’s perfect. He’s also frozen in time at twenty-two, forever handsome—winning smile, great teeth, sparkle in his eye. I know because there’s a photo of him that’s the first thing you see when you walk in the front door. It’s why I came in through the kitchen.

All my life, I’d heard what a great tragedy it is that he’s gone. Left unsaid was what a letdown it is that I remain instead. Fifteen and awkward and unfinished.

His name was Dix, short for Dixon, and he died before I was born. I was the consolation prize. By the time I came along, my parents were older. Not only older, but slightly used up. As if they’d spent all their energy on their only son, and when their second only son came along, they had to go to the reserve energy tanks, which didn’t work quite as well. I slept in the bedroom that had been his, grew up in the same town, went to the same special save-the-world school, even had some of the same teachers, whom I imagined looked at me with sympathy rather than admiration. I was the also-ran.

Or that’s what I thought until my Uncle Don came to dinner that September Monday at our cream-colored brick home on Brent Hill in Springfield, Missouri. We had herbed chicken and rutabagas. He was a favorite uncle, never married, constantly in good humor. He was always glad to see me, always calkled me “Colt my boy,” as if “my boy” was my middle name.

They were at the dinner table having decaf coffee and angel food cake when I asked to be excused. I decided to practice my drums before finishing my homework, because Uncle Don was a music fan from back they they actually called it “rock’n’roll.” So I went to my room, cranked up the music, and sat down behind my Ludwigs to finish working out the drum part to a new song by a band I liked. I’d been through it once but I wanted a different sound. Then I remembered I had some new jazz drumsticks in my backpack.

I let the band continue to wail while I headed out to the front hall to fetch them.

Domino one.

I wasn’t sneaking, or being especially quiet. I was still digging my drumsticks out of my backpack when I heard Uncle Don say, “He’s getting pretty good on those drums. He might be good enough to play in a professional band. Has he said what he’d like to be? A professional drummer, or does he show any of his dad’s interest in being a secret agent?”

This stopped me in my tracks. My dad had never been an agent. He was an engineer.

“No,” Mom said. “Thank the Lord.”

A pause. Then Uncle Don said, “Don’t you sometimes wish his parents could see him? I think they’d be so proud.”

There was dead air. Then Mom said, pointedly, “We’ve discussed this.”

It was right about then the hall tilted. I had to put my hand out to steady myself. After a minute of gulping breath, I lurched back to my bedroom.

# # #

Axel Avian has traveled the world for his work. To relax, he enjoys sky and SCUBA diving, fencing, rugby, hang gliding, horseback riding, and snowboarding. He reads whenever he can, and routinely trounces opponents on video games. He would also like to note that he is humble, easily amused, and occasionally very funny.Since he is not (usually) an active agent these days, he thought it might be time to write some books in hopes of letting kids know they, too, can change the world.